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The  Deemster 


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uu /■[;)' 

wKH'diS'ffr  or  ifii§nf 

VUiff  V  / 


Dear  Wilson  Barrett .« 

Permit  me  to  place  your  name  at  the  head  of  my  bookf 
for  /  know  full  well  that ,  whenever  this  story  of  great  love 
and  great  suffering  may  be  put  upon  the  stage  by  you,  it  will 
acquire  authority ,  dignity ,  strength  of  feeling ,  and  tenderness 
of  sentiment  from  a  master  of  dramatic  passion. 

Hall  Caine. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  DEATH  OF  OLD  EWAN. 

Thorkell  Mylrea  had  waited  long  for  a  dead  man's  shoes, 
but  he  was  wearing  them  at  length.  He  was  forty  years 
of  age  ;  his  black  hair  was  thin  on  the  crown  and  streaked 
with  gray  about  the  temples  ;  the  crows'  feet  were  thick 
under  his  small  eyes,  and  the  backs  of  his  lean  hands  were 
coated  with  a  reddish  down.  But  he  had  life  in  every  vein, 
and  restless  energy  in  every  limb. 

His  father,  Ewan  Mylrea,  had  lived  long,  and  mourned 
much,  and  died  in  sorrow.  The  good  man  had  been  a 
patriarch  among  his  people,  and  never  a  serener  saint  had 
trod  the  ways  of  men.  He  was  already  an  old  man  when 
his  wife  died.  Over  her  open  grave  he  tried  to  say,  “  The 

Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  ;  blessed - ” 

But  his  voice  faltered  and  broke.  Though  he  lived  ten 
years  longer,  he  held  up  his  head  no  more.  Little  by 
little  he  relinquished  all  active  interest  in  material  affairs. 
The  world  had  lost  its  light  for  him,  and  he  was  travelling 
in  the  dusk. 

On  his  sons,  Thorkell,  the  elder,  Gilcrist,  the  younger, 
with  nearly  five  years  between  them,  the  conduct  of  his 
estate  devolved.  Never  were  brothers  more  unlike.  Gib 
crist,  resembling  his  father,  was  of  a  simple  and  tranquil 
soul ;  Thorkell’s  nature  was  fiery,  impetuous,  and  crafty. 
The  end  was  the  inevitable  one  ;  the  heel  of  Thorkell  was 
too  soon  on  the  neck  of  Gilcrist. 

Gilcrist’s  placid  spirit  overcame  its  first  vexation,  and 
he  seemed  content  to  let  his  interests  slip  from  his  hands. 
Before  a  year  was  out  Thorkell  Mylrea  was  in  effect  the 
master  of  Ballamona  ;  his  younger  brother  was  nightly 
immersed  in  astronomy  and  the  Fathers,  and  the  old  mm 


4 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


v  n  I  jj 

1  *  i  ^  ^ 

was  sitting  daily,  in  his  slippers,  in  the  high-backed  arm¬ 
chair  by  the  ingle,  over  which  these  words  were  cut  in  the 
black  oak  :  “  God’s  Providence  is  mine  inheritance.” 

They  were  strange  effects  that  followed.  People  said 
they  had  never  understood  the  extraordinary  fortunes  of 
Ballamona.  Again  and  again  the  rents  were  raised 
throughout  the  estate,  until  the  farmers  cried  in  the  grip 
of  their  poverty  that  they  would  neither  go  nor  starve. 
Then  the  wagons  of  Thorkell  Mylrea,  followed  close  at 
their  tail-boards  by  the  carts  of  the  clergy,  drove  into  the 
cornfields  when  the  corn  was  cut,  and  picked  up  the  stooks 
and  bore  them  away  amid  the  deep  curses  of  the  bare¬ 
armed  reapers,  who  looked  on  in  their  impotent  rage. 

Nevertheless,  Thorkell  Mylrea  said,  far  and  wide,  with¬ 
out  any  show  of  reserve,  and  with  every  accent  of  sincerity, 
that  never  before  had  his  father’s  affairs  worn  so  grave  a 
look.  He  told  Ewan  as  much  time  after  time,  and  then  the 
troubled  old  face  looked  puzzled.  The  end  of  many  ear¬ 
nest  consultations  between  father  and  son,  as  the  one  sat 
by  the  open  hearth  and  the  other  leaned  against  the  let¬ 
tered  ingle,  was  a  speedy  recourse  to  certain  moneys  that 
lay  at  an  English  bank,  as  well  as  the  old  man’s  signature 
to  documents  of  high  moment. 

Old  Ewan’s  spirits  sank  yet  lower  year  by  year,  but  he 
lived  on  peacefully  enough.  As  time  went  by,  he  talked 
less,  and  his  humid  eyes  seemed  to  look  within  in  degree 
as  they  grew  dim  to  things  without.  But  the  day  came  at 
length  when  the  old  man  died  in  his  chair,  before  the 
slumberous  peat  fire  on  the  hearth,  quietly,  silently,  with¬ 
out  a  movement,  his  graspless  fingers  fumbling  a  worm- 
eaten  hour-glass,  his  long  waves  oi  thin  white  hair  falling 
over  his  drooping  shoulders,  and  his  upturned  eyes  fixed 
in  a  strong  stare  on  the  text  carved  on  the  rannel-tree 
shelf,  “  God’s  Providence  is  mine  inheritance.” 

That  night  Thorkell  sat  alone  at  the  same  ingle,  in  the 
same  chair,  glancing  at  many  parchments,  and  dropping 
them  one  by  one  into  the  fire.  Long  afterward,  when  idle 
tongues  were  set  to  wag,  it  was  said  that  the  elder  son  of 
Ewan  Mylrea  had  found  a  means  whereby  to  sap  away  his 
father’s  personalty.  Then  it  was  remembered  that  through 
all  his  strange  misfortunes  Thorkell  had  borne  an  equal 
countenance. 

They  buried  the  old  man  under  the  elder-tree  by  the 
wall  of  the  churchyard  that  stands  over  against  the  sea. 
It  seemed  as  if  half  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  came 


THE  DEBMSTEk.  |  f  j;  f;  f  \  g 

to  hi*  funeral,  and  six  sets  of  bearers  claimed  tfielf  t^irri  to 
carry  him  to  the  grave.  The  day  was  a  gloomy  day  of 
winter  ;  there  was  not  a  bird  or  a  breath  in  the  heavy  air ; 
the  sky  was  low  and  empty  ;  the  long  dead  sea  was  very 
gray  and  cold  ;  and  over  the  unploughed  land  the  withered 
stalks  of  the  last  crop  lay  dank  on  the  mould.  When  the 
company  returned  to  Ballamona  they  sat  down  to  eat  and 
drink  and  make  merry,  for  “  excessive  sorrow  is  exceeding 
dry/’  No  one  asked  for  the  will  ;  there  was  no  will  be¬ 
cause  there  was  no  personalty,  and  the  lands  were  by  law 
the  inheritance  of  the  eldest  son.  Thorkell  was  at  the 
head  of  his  table,  and  he  smiled  a  little,  and  sometimes 
reached  over  the  board  to  touch  with  his  glass  the  glass 
that  was  held  out  toward  him.  Gilcrist  had  stood  with 
these  mourners  under  the  empty  sky,  and  his  heart  was  as 
bare  and  desolate,  but  he  could  endure  their  company  no 
longer.  In  an  agony  of  grief  and  remorse,  and  rage  as 
well,  he  got  up  from  his  untouched  food  and  walked  away 
to  his  own  room.  It  was  a  little,  quiet  nest  of  a  room  that 
looked  out  by  one  small  window  over  the  marshy  Cur- 
raghs  that  lay  between  the  house  and  the  sea.  There  Gil¬ 
crist  sat  alone  that  day  in  a  sort  of  dull  stupor. 

The  daylight  had  gone,  and  the  revolving  lamps  on  the 
headland  of  Ayre  were  twinkling  red  after  black  over  the 
blank  waters,  when  the  door  opened  and  Thorkell  en¬ 
tered.  Gilcrist  stirred  the  fire,  and  it  broke  into  a  bright 
blaze.  Thorkell’s  face  wore  a  curious  expression. 

“  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  you,  Gilcrist ; 
especially  during  the  last  few  days.  In  fact,  I  have  been 
troubled  about  you,  to  say  the  truth,”  said  Thorkell,  and 
then  he  paused.  “  Affairs  are  in  a  bad  way  at  Ballamona 
— very.” 

Gilcrist  made  no  response  whatever,  but  clasped  his 
hands  about  his  knee  and  looked  steadily  into  the  fire. 

“We  are  neither  of  us  young  men  now,  but  if  you 
should  think  of — of — anything,  I  should  consider  it  wrong 
to  stand — to  put  myself  in  your  way — to  keep  you  here, 
that  is — to  your  disadvantage,  you  know.” 

Thorkell  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his 
finders  interlaced  behind  him. 

Gilcrist  rose  to  his  feet.  “Very  well,”  he  said,  with  a 
strained  quietness,  and  then  turned  toward  the  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  dark  sea.  Only  the  sea's  voice  from 
the  shore  beyond  the  churchyard  broke  the  silence  in  that 
little  room. 


0  w  n  >  n  f,  THE  DEEMSTER. 

\  Ji  A  11  l*  « •* 

Thorkell  stood  a  moment,  leaning  on  the  mantel-shelf^ 
and  the  flickering  lights  of  the  fire  seemed  to  make  sinister 
smiles  on  his  face.  Then  he  went  out  without  a  word. 

Next  morning,  at  daybreak,  Gilcrist  Mylrea  was  riding 
toward  Derby  Haven  with  a  pack  in  green  cloth  across  his 
saddle-bow.  He  took  passage  by  the  King  Orry,  an  old 
sea-tub  plying  once  a  week  to  Liverpool.  From  Liver¬ 
pool  he  went  on  to  Cambridge  to  offer  himself  as  a  sizar 
at  the  University. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  anyone  that  Thorkell  Mylrea 
would  marry.  But  his  father  was  scarcely  cold  in  his 
grave,  the  old  sea-tub  that  took  his  brother  across  the 
Channel  had  hardly  grounded  at  Liverpool,  when  Thorkell 
Mylrea  offered  his  heart  ai?d  wrinkled  hand,  and  the  five 
hundred  acres  of  Ballamona,  to  a  lady  twenty  years  of  age„ 
who  lived  at  a  distance  of  some  six  miles  from  his  estate. 
It  would  be  more  precise  to  say  that  the  liberal  tender  was 
made  to  the  lady’s  father,  for  her  own  will  was  little  more 
than  a  cypher  in  the  bargaining.  She  was  a  girl  of  sweet 
spirit,  very  tender  and  submissive,  and  much  under  the 
spell  of  religious  feeling.  Her  mother  had  died  during 
her  infancy,  and  she  had  been  brought  up  in  a  household 
that  was  without  other  children,  in  a  gaunt  rectory  that 
never  echoed  with  children’s  voices.  Her  father  was  Arch¬ 
deacon  of  the  island,  Archdeacon  Teare  ;  her  own  name 
was  Joance. 

If  half  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  turned  out  at  old 
Ewan’s  funeral,  the  entire  population  of  four  parishes  made 
a  holiday  of  his  son’s  wedding.  The  one  followed  hard 
upon  the  other,  and  thrift  was  not  absent  from  either. 
Thorkell  was  married  in  the  early  spring  at  the  Arch¬ 
deacon’s  church,  at  Andreas. 

It  would  be  rash  to  say  that  the  presence  of  the  great 
company  at  the  wedding  was  intended  as  a  tribute  to  the 
many  virtues  of  Thorkell  Mylrea.  Indeed,  it  was  as  well 
that  the  elderly  bridegroom  could  not  overhear  the  con¬ 
versation  with  which  some  of  the  homely  folk  beguiled 
the  way. 

“  Aw,  the  murther  of  it,”  said  one  buirdly  Manxman, 
“  five-and-forty  if  lie’s  a  day,  and  a  wizened  old  polecat 
anyway.” 

“  You’d  really  think  the  gel’s  got  no  feelin’s.  Aw, 
shockin’,  shockin’  extraordinary  !  ” 

“  And  a  rael  good  gel  too,  they’re  sayiji\  Arpa^ia’I 

Amazia’J” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


f 

^fhe  marriage  of  Thorkell  was  a  curious  ceremony.  First 
there  walked  abreast  the  fiddler  and  the  piper,  playing 
vigorously  the  “  Black  and  Gray  ;  ”  then  came  the  bride¬ 
groom's  men  carrying  osiers,  as  emblems  of  their  superior* 
ity  over  the  bridesmaids,  who  followed  them.  Three  ti^es 
the  company  passed  round  the  church  before  entering  it* 
and  then  they  trooped  up  toward  the  communion-rail. 

Thorkell  went  through  the  ceremony  with  the  air  of  a 
whipped  terrier.  On  the  outside  he  was  gay  in  frills  and 
cuffs,  and  his  thin  hair  was  brushed  crosswise  over  the 
bald  patch  on  his  crown.  He  wore  buckled  shoes  and 
blue  laces  to  his  breeches.  But  his  brave  exterior  lent 
him  small  support  as  he  took  the  ungloved  hand  of  his 
girlish  bride.  He  gave  his  responses  in  a  voice  that  first 
faltered,  and  then  sent  out  a  quick,  harsh,  loud  pipe.  No 
such  gaunt  and  grim  shadow  of  a  joyful  bridegroom  ever 
before  knelt  beside  a  beautiful  bride,  and  while  the  Arch¬ 
deacon  married  this  spectre  of  a  happy  man  to  his  own 
submissive  daughter,  the  whispered  comments  of  the 
throng  that  filled  nave  and  aisles  and  gallery  sometimes 
reached  his  own  ears. 

“  You  wouldn’t  think  it,  now,  that  the  craythur’s  sold  his 
own  gel,  and  him  preaching  there  about  the  covenant  and 
Isaac  and  Rebecca,  and  all  that !  ” 

“  Hush,  man,  it’s  Laban  and  Jacob  lie’s  meaning.” 

When  the  ceremony  had  come  to  an  end,  and  the  bride¬ 
groom’s  eyes  were  no  longer  fixed  in  a  stony  stare  on  the 
words  of  the  Commandments  printed  in  black  and  white 
under  the  chancel  window,  the  scene  underwent  a  swift 
change.  In  one  minute  Thorkell  was  like  another  man. 
All  his  abject  bearing  fell  away.  When  the  party  was 
clear  of  the  churchyard  four  of  the  groom’s  men  started 
for  the  Rectory  at  a  race,  and  the  first  to  reach  it  won  a 
flask  of  brandy,  with  which  he  returned  at  high  speed  to 
the  wedding  company.  Then  Thorkell,  as  the  custom  was, 
bade  his  friends  to  form  a  circle  where  they  stood  in  the 
road,  while  he  drank  of  the  brandy  and  handed  the  flask 
to  his  wife. 

“  Custom  must  be  indulged  with  custom,”  said  he,  “  or 
custom  will  weep.” 

After  that  the  company  moved  on  until  they  reached 
the  door  of  the  Archdeacon’s  house,  where  the  bridecake 
was  broken  over  the  bride’s  head,  and  then  thrown  to  be 
scrambled  for  by  the  noisy  throng  that  blew  neat's  herns 
pad  hred  guns  and  sang  ditties  by  the  way* 


8 


the  deemster. 


Thorkell,  with  the  chivalrous  bearing  of  an  old  courtier, 
delivered  up  his  wife  to  the  flock  of  ladies  who  were  ready 
to  pounce  upon  her  at  the  door  of  the  Rectory.  Then  he 
mingled  freely  with  the  people,  and  chattered  and  ban¬ 
tered,  and  made  quips  and  quibbles.  Finally,  he  invited 
all  and  sundry  to  partake  freely  of  the  oaten  cake  and  ale 
that  he  had  himself  brought  from  Ballamona  in  his  car 
for  the  refreshment  of  his  own  tenants  there  present. 
The  fare  was  Lenten  fare  for  a  wedding-day,  and  some 
of  the  straggle-headed  troop  grumbled,  and  some  sniffled, 
and  some  scratched  their  heads,  and  some  laughed  out¬ 
right.  The  beer  and  bread  were  left  almost  untouched. 

Thorkell  was  blind  to  the  discontent  of  his  guests,  but 
the  Archdeacon  perceived  it,  and  forthwith  called  such 
of  the  tumultuous  assemblage  as  came  from  a  distance 
into  his  barns.  There  the  creels  were  turned  bottom  up, 
and  four  close-jointed  gates  lifted  off  their  hinges  were 
laid  on  the  top  for  tables.  Then  from  pans  and  boilers 
that  simmered  in  the  kitchen  a  great  feast  was  spread. 
First  came  the  broth,  well  loaded  with  barley  and  cab¬ 
bage,  and  not  destitute  of  the  flavor  of  numerous  sheep’s 
heads.  This  was  served  in  wooden  piggins,  shells  being 
used  as  spoons.  Then  suet  pudding,  as  round  as  a  well- 
fed  salmon,  and  as  long  as  a  3olb.  cod.  Last  of  all  a  fat 
hog,  roasted  whole,  and  cut  with  a  cleaver,  but  further 
dissected  only  by  teeth  and  fingers,  for  the  unfastidious' 
Manxman  cared  nothing  for  knife  and  fork. 

After  that  there  were  liquor  and  lusty  song.  And  all 
the  time  there  could  be  heard,  over  the  boisterous  har¬ 
mony  of  the  feasters  within  the  barn,  the  yet  noisier  racket 
of  the  people  without. 

By  this  time,  whatever  sentiment  of  doubtful  charity! 
had  been  harbored  in  the  icy  breast  of  the  Manxman  had 
been  thawed  away  under  the  charitable  effects  of  good, 
cheer,  and  Thorkell  Mylrea  and  Archdeacon  Teare  began 
to  appear  in  truly  Christian  character. 

“  It’s  none  so  ould  he  is  yet,  at  all  at  all.” 

u  Ould  ?  He  hasn’t  the  hayseed  out  of  his  hair,  boy.” 

“And  a  shocking  powerful  head-piece  at  him  for  all.” 

There  were  rough  jokes  and  dubious  toasts,  and  Thor* 
kell  enjoyed  them  all.  There  was  dancing,  too,  and  fid¬ 
dling,  and  the  pipes  at  intervals,  and  all  went  merry  until 
midnight,  when  the  unharmonious  harmonies  of  fiddle  and 
pi  pm  and  unsteady  song  went  off  over  the  Curraghs  in 
faritm*  direction* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


9 


Next  morning  Thorkell  took  his  wife  home  to  BalU- 
mona.  They  drove  in  the  open  springless  car  in  which  he 
had  brought  down  the  oaten  cake  and  ale.  Thorkell  had 
seen  that  the  remains  of  these  good  viands  were  thriftily 
gathered  up.  He  took  them  back  home  with  him,  care¬ 
fully  packed  under  the  board  on  which  his  young  wife 
sat. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  MAN  CHILD  IS  BORN. 

Three  years  passed  and  Thorkell’s  fortunes  grew  apace# 
He  toiled  early  and  late.  Time  had  no  odd  days  or  holi¬ 
day  in  his  calendar.  Every  day  was  working  day  except 
Sunday,  and  then  Thorkell,  like  a  devout  Christian,  went 
to  church.  Thorkell  believed  that  he  was  a  devoutly 
religious  man,  but  rumor  whispered  that  he  was  better 
able  to  make  his  words  fly  up  than  to  prevent  his  thoughts 
from  remaining  below. 

His  wife  did  not  seem  to  be  a  happy  woman.  During 
the  three  years  of  her  married  life  she  had  not  borne  her 
husband  children.  It  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  Thor- 
kell’s  sole  desire  in  marriage  had  been  a  child,  a  son,  to 
whom  he  could  leave  what  no  man  can  carry  away. 

One  Sunday  morning,  as  Thorkell  and  his  wife  were  cm 
their  way  to  church,  a  young  woman  of  about  twenty 
passed  them,  and  as  she  went  by  she  curtsied  low  to  tke 
lady.  The  girl  had  a  comely,  nut-brown  face,  with  dark 
wavy  clusters  of  hair  tumbling  over  her  forehead  from  be¬ 
neath  a  white  sun-bonnet,  of  which  the  poke  had  been  dex¬ 
terously  rolled  back.  It  was  summer,  and  her  light  blue 
bodice  was  open  and  showed  a  white  under-bodice  and  a 
fkrll  neck.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  o$er  the  elbows, 
and  her  dimpled  arms  were  bare  and  brown.  There  was 
a  look  of  coquetry  in  her  hazel  eyes  as  they  shot  up  their 
dark  lustre  under  her  long  lashes,  and  then  dropped  as 
quickly  to  her  feet.  She  wore  buckle  shoes  with  the  open 
clock  tops. 

Thorkell’s  quick  eyes  glanced  over  her,  and  when  the 
girl  curtsied  to  his  wife  he  fell  back  the  few  paces  that  h* 
was  in  front  of  her. 

44  Who  is  she  ?  ”  he  asked. 


80 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Thorkell’s  wife  replied  that  the  girl  was  a  net-maker  from 
near  Peeltown. 

€i  What’s  her  name  ?  ” 

Thorkell’s  wife  answered  that  the  girl's  name  was  Mally 
Kerruish. 

“  Who  are  her  people  ?  Has  she  any  ?  99 

Thorkell’s  wife  explained  that  the  girl  had  a  mother  only, 
who  was  poor  and  worked  in  the  fields,  and  had  come  to 
Ballamona  for  help  during  the  last  hard  winter. 

“  Humph  !  Doesn’t  look  as  if  the  daughter  wanted  for 
much.  How  does  the  girl  come  by  her  fine  feathers  if  her 
mother  lives  on  charity?” 

Thorkell’s  wizened  face  was  twisted  into  grotesque  lines. 
His  wife’s  face  saddened,  and  her  voice  dropped  as  she 
hinted  in  faltering  accents  that  “  scandal  did  say — say ” 

“  Well,  woman,  what  does  scandal  say  ?  ”  asked  Thorkell ; 
and  his  voice  had  a  curious  lilt,  and  his  mouth  wore  a 
strange  smile. 

“  It  says — I’m  afraid,  Thorkell,  the  poor  girl  is  no  better 
than  she  ought  to  be.” 

Thorkell  snorted,  and  then  laughed  in  his  throat  like  a 
frisky  gelding. 

“  I  thought  she  looked  like  a  lively  young  puffin,”  he 
said,  and  then  trotted  on  in  front,  his  head  rolling  between 
his  shoulders,  and  his  eyes  down.  After  going  a  few  yards 
further  he  slackened  speed  again. 

“  Lives  near  Peeltown,  you  say — a  net-maker — Mally — 
is  it  Mally  Kerruish  ?  ” 

Thorkell’s  wife  answered  with  a  nod  of  the  head,  and 
then  her  husband  faced  about,  and  troubled  her  with  no 
further  conversation  until  he  drew  up  at  the  church  door, 
and  said,  “  Quick,  woman,  quick,  and  mind  you  shut  the 
pew  door  after  you.” 

But  “  God  remembered  Rachel  and  hearkened  to  her,” 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  wife  of  Thorkell  Mylrea 
began  to  shoW’a  cheerful  countenance.  Thorkell’s  own 
elevation  of  spirits  was  yet  more  noticeable.  He  had  here¬ 
tofore  showed  no  discontent  with  the  old  homestead  that 
had  housed  his  people  for  six  generations,  but  he  now  be¬ 
gan  to  build  another  and  much  larger  house  on  the  rising 
ground  at  the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo.  His  habits  underwent 
some  swift  and  various  changes.  He  gave  away  no  gray 
blankets  that  winter,  the  itinerant  poor  who  were  “on  the 
houses”  often  went  empty  from  his  door,  and — most  ap¬ 
palling  change  of  all — he  promptly  stopped  his  tith& 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


tS 


When  the  parson’s  cart  drove  up  to  Ballamona,  Thorkell 
turned  the  horse’s  head,  and  gave  the  flank  a  sharp  cut 
with  his  whip.  The  parson  came  in  white  wrath. 

“Let  every  pig  dig  for  herself,”  said  Thorkell.  “I’ll 
daub  grease  on  the  rump  of  your  fat  pig  no  more.” 

Thorkell’s  new  homestead  rose  rapidly,  and  when  the 
walls  were  ready  for  the  roof  the  masons  and  carpenters 
went  up  to  Ballamona  for  the  customary  feast  of  Cowree 
and  Jough  and  Binjean. 

“  What !  Is  it  true,  then,  as  the  saying  is,”  Thorkell  ex¬ 
claimed  at  the  sight  of  them,  “  that  when  the  sport  is  the 
merriest  it  is  time  to  give  up  ?  ” 

They  ate  no  cowree  at  Ballamona  that  night  and  they 
drank  no  jough. 

“  We’ve  been  going  to  the  goat’s  house  for  wool,” 
grunted  one  of  them  as  they  trudged  home. 

“  Aw,  well,  man,  and  what  can  you  get  of  the  cat  but  his 
skin  ?”  growled  another. 

Next  day  they  put  on  the  first  timbers  of  the  roof,  and 
the  following  night  a  great  storm  swept  over  the  island, 
and  the  roof-timbers  were  torn  away,  not  a  spar  or  purlin 
being  left  in  its  place.  Thorkell  fumed  at  the  storm  and 
swore  at  the  men,  and  when  the  wind  subsided  he  had 
the  work  done  afresh.  The  old  homestead  of  Ballamona 
was  thatched,  but  the  new  one  must  be  slated,  and  slates 
were  quarried  at  and  carted  to  Slieu  Dhoo,  and  run  on  to 
the  new  roof.  A  dead  calm  had  prevailed  during  these 
operations,  but  it  was  the  calm  that  lies  in  the  heart  of 
the  storm,  and  the  night  after  they  were  completed  the 
other  edge  of  the  cyclone  passed  over  the  island,  tearing 
up  the  trees  by  their  roots,  and  shaking  the  old  Ballamona 
to  its  foundations.  Thorkell  Mylrea  slept  not  a  wink,  but 
tramped  up  and  down  his  bedroom  the  long  night  through  ; 
and  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  he  drew  the  blind  of  his 
window,  and  peered  through  the  haze  of  the  dawn  to  where 
his  new  house  stood  on  the  breast  of  Slieu  Dhoo.  He 
could  just  descry  its  blue  walls — it  was  roofless. 

The  people  began  to  mutter  beneath  their  breath. 

“Aw,  man,  it’s  a  judgment,”  said  one. 

“  He  has  been  middlin’  hard  on  the  widda  and  fatherless, 
and  it’s  like  enough  that  there’s  Them  aloft  as  knows  it.” 

“What’s  that  they’re  saying?”  said  one  old  crone,  “what 
comes  with  the  wind  goes  with  the  water.” 

“  Och,  I  knew  his  father — -him  and  me  were  same  as 
brothers — and  a  good  ould  man  for  all/* 


TtfE  DEEMSTER. 


72 


u  Well,  and  many  a  good  cow  has  a  bad  calf,”  said  the 
old  woman. 

Thorkell  went  about  like  a  cloud  of  thunder,  and  when 
he  heard  that  the  accidents  to  his  new  homestead  were 
ascribed  to  supernatural  agencies  he  flashed  like  forked 
lightning. 

“Where  there  are  geese  there’s  dirt,”  he  said,  “and 
where  there  are  women  there’s  talking.  Am  I  to  be  fright-* 
ened  if  an  old  woman  sneezes  ?” 

But  before  Thorkell  set  to  work  again  he  paid  his  tithe. 
He  paid  it  with  a  rick  of  discolored  oats  that  had  been  cut 
in  the  wet  and  threshed  before  it  was  dry.  Thorkell  had 
often  wondered  whether  his  cows  would  eat  it.  The  next 
Sunday  morning  the  parson  paused  before  his  sermon  to 
complain  that  certain  of  his  parishioners,  whom  he  would 
not  name  at  present,  appeared  to  think  that  what  was  too 
bad  for  the  pigs  was  good  enough  for  the  priests.  Let  the 
Church  of  God  have  no  more  of  their  pig-swill.  Thorkell 
in  his  pew  chuckled  audibly,  and  muttered  something 
about  paying  for  a  dead  horse. 

It  was  spring  when  the  second  roof  was  blown  down, 
and  the  new  house  stood  roofless  until  early  summer. 
Then  Thorkell  sent  four  lean  pigs  across  to  the  Rectory, 
and  got  his  carpenters  together  and  set  them  to  work. 
The  roofing  proceeded  without  interruption. 

The  primrose  was  not  yet  gone,  the  swallow  had  not  yet 
come,  and  the  young  grass  under  the  feet  of  the  oxen  was 
still  small  and  sweet,  when  Thorkell’s  wife  took  to  her  bed. 
Then  all  Ballamonawas  astir.  Hommy-beg,  the  deaf  gar¬ 
dener  of  Ballamona,  was  sent  in  the  hot  haste  of  his  best 
two  miles  an  hour  to  the  village,  commonly  known  as  the  . 
Street,  to  summon  the  midwife.  This  good  woman  was  J 
called  Kerry  Quayle  ;  she  was  a  spinster  of  forty,  and  she  ! 
was  all  but  blind. 

“I’m  thinking  the  woman-body  is  after  going  on  the  • 
straw,”  said  Hommy-beg,  when  he  reached  the  Street,  and  j 
this  was  the  sum  of  the  message  that  he  delivered. 

“Then  we’d  better  be  off,  as  the  saying  is,”  remarked 
Kerry,  who  never  accepted  responsibility  for  any  syllable 
she  ever  uttered. 

When  they  got  to  Ballamona,  Thorkell  Mylrea  bustled 
Hommy-beg  into  the  square  springless  car,  and  told  him 
to  drive  to  Andreas,  and  fetch  the  Archdeacon  without  an 
hour’s  delay.  Hommy-beg  set  off  at  fine  paces  that  carried 
him  to  the  Archdeaconry  a  matter  of  four  miles  an  hour. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*3 


Thorkell  followed  Kerry  Quayle  to  the  room  above. 
When  they  stepped  into  the  bedroom  Thorkell  drew  the 
midwife  aside  to  a  table  on  which  a  large  candle  stood  in 
a  tail  brass  candlestick,  with  gruesome  gargoyles  carved 
on  the  base  and  upper  flange.  From  this  table  he  picked 
up  a  small  Testament  bound  in  shiny  leather,  with  silver 
clasps. 

“  I’m  as  great  a  man  as  any  in  the  island,”  said  Thorkell, 
in  his  shrill  whisper,  “for  laughing  at  the  simpletons  that 
talk  about  witches  and  boaganes  and  the  like  of  that.” 

“So  you  are,  as  the  saying  is,”  said  Kerry. 

“  I’d  have  the  law  on  the  lot  of  them,  if  I  had  my  way,” 
said  Thorkell,  still  holding  the  book. 

“  Aw,  and  shockin’  powerful  luck  it  would  be,  as  the  old 
body  said,  if  all  the  witches  and  boaganes  in  the  island 
could  be  run  into  the  sea,”  said  Kerry. 

“  Pshaw.!  I’m  talking  of  the  simpletons  that  believe  in 
them,”  said  Thorkell,  snappishly.  “  I’d  clap  them  all  in 
Castle  Rushen.”  _  _ 

“  Aw,  yes,  and  clean  law  and  clean  justice,  too,  as  the 
Irishman  said.” 

“  So  don’t  think  I  want  the  midwife  to  take  her  oath  in 
my  house,”  said  Thorkell. 

“  Och,  no,  of  coorse  not.  You  wouldn’t  bemean  your¬ 
self,  as  they  say.” 

“  But,  then,  you  know  what  the  saying  is,  Kerry.  ‘  Cus¬ 
tom  must  be  indulged  with  custom,  or  custom  will  weep; 
and,  saying  this,  Thorkell’s  voice  took  a  most  insinuating 
tone. 

“Aw,  now,  and  I’m  as  good  as  here  and  there  one  at 
standing  up  for  custom,  as  the  saying  is,”  said  the  midwife. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  Kerry  Quayle  took  there  and 
then  a  solemn  oath  not  to  use  sorcery  or  incantation  of 
any  kind  in  the  time  of  travail,  not  to  change  the  infant 
at  the  hour  of  its  birth,  not  to  leave  it  in  the  room  for  a 
week  afterward  without  spreading  the  tongs  over  its  crib, 
and  much  else  of  the  like  solemn  purport. 

The  dusk  deepened,  and  the  Archdeacon  had  not  yet 
arrived.  Night  came  on  and  the  room  was  dark,  but 
Thorkell  would  not  allow  a  lamp  to  be  brought  in,  or  a 
fire  to  be  lighted.  Some  time  later,  say  six  hours  after 
Hommy-beg  had  set  out  on  his  six-mile  journey,  a  lutn- 
brous,  jolting  sound  of  heavy  wheels  came  from  the  road 
below  the  Curragh,  and  soon  afterward  the  Archdeacon 
entered  the  room. 


*4 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


A  So  dark/1  he  said,  on  stumbling  across  the  threshold. 

“  Ah,  Archdeacon, ”  said  Thorkell,  with  the  unaccustomed 
greeting  of  an  outstretched  hand,  “the  Church  shall  bring 
light  to  the  chamber  here,”  and  Thorkell  handed  the  tin¬ 
der-box  to  the  Archdeacon  and  led  him  to  the  side  of  the 
table  on  which  the  candle  stood. 

In  an  instant  the  Archdeacon,  laughing  a  little,  or  pro¬ 
testing  meekly  against  his  clerical  honors,  was  striking  the 
flint,  when  Thorkell  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

“Wait  one  moment ;  of  course  you  know  how  I  despise 
superstition  ?” 

“Ah!  of  course,  of  course,”  said  the  Archdeacon. 

“  But,  then,  you  know  the  old  saying,  Archdeacon, 
4  Custom  must  be  indulged  with  custom/ you  know  it  ?  ” 
And  Thorkell’s  face  shut  up  like  a  nut-cracker. 

“So  I  must  bless  the  candle.  Eh,  is  that  it  ?”  said  the 
Archdeacon,  with  a  low  gurgle  ;  and  the  next  moment  he 
was  gabbling  in  a  quick  undertone  through  certain  words 
that  seemed  to  be  all  one  word: — “O-Lord-Jesus-Christ- 
bless  -Thou-this  -  creature-of-a-waxen-taper-that-on-what* 
place-soever-it  -  be-lighted-or-set  -  the-devil-may-flee-from- 
that-habitation  -  and-no-more  -  disquiet  -  them  -  that-serve — 
Thee !  ” 

After  the  penultimate  word  there  was  a  short  pause,  and 
at  the  last  word  there  was  the  sharp  crack  of  the  flint,  and 
in  an  instant  the  candle  was  lighted. 

Then  the  Archdeacon  turned  toward  the  bed  and  ex¬ 
changed  some  words  with  his  daughter.  The  bed  was  a 
mahogany  four-post  one,  with  legs  like  rocks,  a  hood  like 
a  pulpit  sounding-board,  and  tapestry  curtains  like  a 
muddy  avalanche.  The  Archdeacon — he  was  a  small  man, 
with  a  face  like  a  russet  apple — leaned  against  one  of  the 
bed-posts,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  banter: 

“  Why,  Thorkell,  and  if  you're  for  indulging  custom,  how 
comes  it  that  you  have  not  hung  up  your  hat  ?  ” 

“  My  hat — my  hat !  ”  said  Thorkell,  in  perplexity. 

“Aw,  now,”  said  the  midwife,  “the  master’s  as  great  a 
plan  as  any  in  the  island  at  laughing  at  the  men  craythurs 
that  hang  up  their  hats  over  the  straw  to  fright  the  boa- 
ganes,  as  the  old  woman  said.” 

Thorkell’s  laughter  instantly  burst  forth  to  justify  the 
midwife’s  statement. 

“  Ha,  ha  !  Hang  up  my  hat !  Well  now,  well  now  ! 
Drives  away  the  black  spirits  from  the  birth-bed — isn’t  that 
what  the  dunces  say?  It’s  twenty  years  since  I  saw  the 


THE  DEEMS1ER. 


H 

like  of  it  done,  and  Fd  forgotten  the  old  custom.  Must 
look  funny,  very,  the  good  mail’s  hat  perched  up  on  the 
bed-post  ?  What  d’ye  say,  Archdeacon,  shall  we  have  it 
up  ?  Just  for  the  laugh,  you  know,  ha,  ha !  ” 

In  another  moment  Thorkell  was  gone  from  the  room, 
and  his  titter  could  be  heard  from  the  stairs  ;  it  ebbed  away 
and  presently  flowed  back  again,  and  Thorkell  wTas  once 
more  by  the  bedside,  laughing  immoderately,  and  perching 
his  angular  soft  hat  on  the  topmost  knob  of  one  of  the 
posts  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Then  Thorkell  and  the  Archdeacon  went  down  to  the 
little  room  that  had  once  been  Gilcrist’s  room,  looking 
over  the  Curragh  to  the  sea. 

Before  daybreak  next  morning  a  man  child  was  born  to 
Thorkell  Mylrea,  and  an  heir  to  the  five  hundred  acres  of 
Ballamona. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  CHRISTENING  OF  YOUNG  EWAN# 

In  the  dead  waste  of  that  night  the  old  walls  of  Balla¬ 
mona  echoed  to  the  noise  of  hurrying  feet.  Thorkell  him¬ 
self  ran  like  a  squirrel,  hither  and  thither,  breaking  out 
now  and  again  into  shrill  peals  of  hysterical  laughter; 
while  the  women  took  the  kettle  to  the  room  above,  and 
employed  themselves  there  in  sundry  mysterious  ordi¬ 
nances  on  which  no  male  busybody  might  intrude.  Thor¬ 
kell  dived  down  into  the  kitchen,  and  rooted  about  in  the 
meal  casks  for  the  oaten  cake,  and  into  the  larder  for  the 
cheese,  and  into  the  cupboard  for  the  bread-basket  known 
as  the  “  peck.” 

Hommy-beg,  who  had  not  been  permitted  to  go  home 
that  night,  had  coiled  himself  in  the  settle  drawn  up  be¬ 
fore  the  kitchen  fire,  and  was  now  snoring  lustily.  Thor¬ 
kell  roused  him,  and  set  him  to  break  the  oatcake  and 
cheese  into  small  pieces  into  the  peck,  and,  when  this 
was  done,  to  scatter  it  broadcast  on  the  staircase  and  land¬ 
ing,  and  on  the  garden-path  immediately  in  front  of  the 
house  ;  while  he  himself  carried  a  similar  peck,  piled  up 
like  a  pyramid  with  similar  pieces  of  oatcake  and  cheese, 
to  the  room  whence  there  issued  at  intervals  a  thin,  small 
voice,  that  was  the  sweetest  music  that  had  ever  yet  fallen 
on  Thorkell’ s  ear* 


THE  DEEMSTER 


IS 


What  high  commotion  did  the  next  day  witness !  Fo* 
the  first  time  since  that  lurid  day  when  old  Ewan  Mylrea 
was  laid  under  the  elder-tree  in  the  churchyard  by  the  sea, 
Ballamona  kept  open  house.  The  itinerant  poor,  who 
made  the  circuit  of  the  houses,  came  again,  and  lifted  the 
latch  without  knocking,  and  sat  at  the  fire  without  being 
asked,  and  ate  of  the  oatcake  and  the  cheese.  And  up¬ 
stairs,  where  a  meek  white  face  looked  out  with  an  un¬ 
familiar  smile  from  behind  sheets  that  were  hardly  more 
white,  the  robustious  statespeople  from  twenty  miles 
around  sat  down  in  their  odorous  atmosphere  of  rude 
health  and  high  spirits,  and  noise  and  laughter,  to  drink 
their  glass  of  new  brewed  jough,  and  to  spread  on  their 
oaten  bread  a  thick  crust  of  the  rum-butter  that  stood  in 
the  great  blue  china  bowl  on  the  little  table  near  the  bed¬ 
head.  And  Thorkell — how  nimbly  he  hopped  about,  and 
encouraged  his  visitors  to  drink,  and  rallied  them  if  they 
ceased  to  eat ! 

“Come,  man,  come,”  he  said  a  score  of  times,  “  shame¬ 
ful  leaving  is  worse  than  shameful  eating — eat,  drink  !  ” 

And  they  ate,  and  they  drank,  and  they  laughed,  and 
they  sang,  till  the  bedroom  reeked  with  the  fumes  of  a 
pot-house,  and  the  confusion  of  tongues  therein  was  worse 
than  at  the  foot  of  Babel. 

Throughout  three  long  jovial  weeks  the  visitors  came 
and  went,  and  every  day  the  “  blithe  bread”  was  piled  in 
the  peck  for  the  poor  of  the  earth,  and  scattered  on  the 
paths  for  the  good  spirits  of  the  air.  And  when  people 
jested  upon  this,  and  said  that  not  since  the  old  days  of 
their  grandfathers  had  the  boaganes  and  the  fairies  been 
so  civilly  treated,  Thorkell  laughed  noisily,  and  said  what 
great  fun  it  was  that  they  should  think  he  was  super¬ 
stitious,  and  that  custom  must  be  indulged  with  custom, 
or  custom  would  weep  ! 

Then  came  the  christening,  and  to  this  ceremony  the 
whole  country  round  was  invited.  Thorkell  was  now  a 
man  of  consequence,  and  the  neighbors  high  and  low 
trooped  in  with  presents  for  the  young  Christian. 

Kerry,  the  midwife,  who  was  nurse  as  well,  carried  the 
child  to  church,  and  the  tiny  red  burden  lay  cooing  softly 
at  her  breast  in  a  very  hillock  of  white  swaddlings.  Thor¬ 
kell  walked  behind,  his  little  eyes  twinkling  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows  ;  and  on  his  arm  his  wife  leaned  heavily 
after  every  feeble  step,  her  white  waxwork  face  bright 
with  the  smile  of  £r§t  motherhood* 


the  deemstrS. 


*» 

The  Archdeacon  met  the  company  at  the  west  porch, 
and  they  gathered  for  the  baptism  about  the  font  in  the 
aisle  :  half-blind  Kerry  with  the  infant,  Thorkell  and  his 
young  wife,  the  two  godfathers,  the  Vicar  General  and 
the  High  Bailiff  of  Peeltown,  and  the  godmother,  the 
High  Bailiff’s  wife,  and  behind  this  circle  a  mixed 
throng  of  many  sorts.  After  the  gospel  and  the  prayers, 
the  Archdeacon,  in  his  white  surplice,  took  the  infant  into 
his  hands  and  called  on  the  godparents  to  name  the  child, 
and  they  answered  Ewan.  Then,  as  the  drops  fell  over 
the  wee  blinking  eyes,  and  all  voices  were  hushed  in  si¬ 
lence  and  awe,  there  came  to  the  open  porch  and  looked 
into  the  dusky  church  a  little  fleecy  lamb,  all  soft  and 
white  and  beautiful.  It  lifted  its  innocent  and  dazed  face 
where  it  stood  in  the  morning  sunshine,  on  the  grass  of 
the  graves,  and  bleated,  and  bleated,  as  if  it  had  strayed 
from  its  mother  and  was  lost. 

The  Archdeacon  paused  with  his  drooping  finger  half 
raised  over  the  other  innocent  face  at  his  breast,  Thor- 
kell’s  features  twitched,  and  the  tears  ran  down  the  white 
cheeks  of  his  wife. 

In  an  instant  the  baby-lamb  had  hobbled  away,  and  be¬ 
fore  the  Archdeacon  had  restored  the  child  to  the  arms  of 
blind  Kerry,  or  mumbled  the  last  of  the  prayers,  there 
came  the  hum  of  many  voices  from  the  distance.  The 
noise  came  rapidly  nearer,  and  as  it  approached  it  broke 
into  a  tumult  of  men’s  deep  shouts  and  women’s  shrill 
cries. 

The  iron  hasp  of  the  lych-gate  to  the  churchyard  was 
heard  to  chink,  and  at  the  same  moment  there  was  the 
sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  on  the  paved  way.  The  com¬ 
pany  that  had  gathered  about  the  font  broke  up  abruptly, 
and  made  for  the  porch  with  looks  of  inquiry  and  amaze¬ 
ment.  There,  at  the  head  of  a  mixed  throng  of  the  riff-raff 
of  the  parish,  bareheaded  men,  women  with  bold  faces, 
and  children  with  naked  feet,  a  man  held  a  young  woman 
by  the  arm  and  pulled  her  toward  the  church.  He  was  a 
stalwart  fellow,  stern  of  feature,  iron  gray,  and  he  gripped 
the  girl’s  bare  brown  arm  like  a  vice. 

“  Make  way  there  !  Come,  mistress,  and  no  struggling,” 
he  shouted,  and  he  tugged  the  girl  after  him,  and  then 
pushed  her  before  him. 

She  was  young  ;  twenty  at  most.  Her  comely  face  was 
drawn  hard  with  lines  of  pain  ;  her  hazel  eyes  flashed  with 
Wrath ;  and  where  her  white  sun-bonnet  had  fallen  back 
3 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


from  her  head  on  to  her  shoulders,  the  knots  of  he*  dark 
hair,  draggled  and  tangled  in  the  scuffle,  tumbled  in  masses 
over  her  neck  and  cheeks. 

It  was  Mally  Kerruish,  and  the  man  who  held  her  and 
forced  her  along  was  the  parish  sumner,  the  church  con¬ 
stable. 

“  Make  way,  I  tell  you  !  ”  shouted  the  sumner  to  the 
throng  that  crowded  upon  him,  and  into  the  porch,  and 
through  the  company  that  had  come  for  the  christening. 
When  the  Archdeacon  stepped  down  from  the  side  of  the, 
font,  the  sumner  with  his  prisoner  drew  up  on  the  instant, 
and  the  noisy  crew  stood  and  was  silent. 

“  I  have  brought  her  for  her  oath,  your  reverence,”  said 
the  sumner,  dropping  his  voice  and  his  head  together. 

“Who  accuses  her?”  the  Archdeacon  asked. 

“  Her  old  mother,”  said  the  sumner  ;  “  here  she  is.” 

From  the  middle  of  the  throng  behind  him  the  sumner 
drew  out  an  elderly  woman  with  a  hard  and  wizened  face. 
Her  head  was  bare,  her  eyes  were  quick  and  restless,  her 
lips  firm  and  long,  her  chin  was  broad  and  heavy.  The 
woman  elbowed  her  way  forward  ;  but  when  she  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  Archdeacon,  and  he  asked 
her  if  she  charged  her  daughter,  she  looked  around  before 
answering,  and  seeing  her  girl  Mally  standing  there  with 
her  white  face,  under  the  fire  of  fifty  pairs  of  eyes,  all  her 
resolution  seemed  to  leave  her. 

“  It  isn’t  natheral,  I  know,”  she  said,  “  a  mother  speaking 
up  agen  her  child,”  and  with  that  her  hard  mouth  softened, 
her  quick  eyes  reddened  and  filled,  and  her  hands  went  up 
to  her  face.  “  But  nature  goes  down  with  a  flood  when 
you're  looking  to  have  another  belly  to  fill,  and  not  a 
shilling  at  you  this  fortnight.” 

The  girl  stood  without  a  word,  and  not  one  streak  of 
color  came  to  her  white  cheeks  as  her  mother  spoke. 

“  She  denied  it,  and  denied  it,  and  said  no,  and  no  ;  but 
leave  it  to  a  mother  to  know  what  way  her  girl’s  going.” 

There  was  a  low  murmur  among  the  people  at  the  back 
and  some  whispering.  The  girl’s  keen  ear  caught  it,  and 
she  turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder  with  a  defiant 
glance. 

“Who  is  the  man  ?”  said  the  Archdeacon,  recalling  her 
with  a  touch  of  his  finger  on  her  arm. 

She  did  not  answer  at  first,  and  he  repeated  the  ques¬ 
tion. 

“  Who  is  the  guilty  man  ?  ”  he  said,  in  a  voice  more  stern. 


THE  DEEMSTER.  ig 

“It's  not  true.  Let  me  go,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  quick 
undertone. 

“  Who  is  the  partner  of  your  sin?” 

“It’s  not  true,  I  say.  Let  me  go,  will  you?”  and  the 
girl  struggled  feebly  in  the  sumner’s  grip. 

“  Bring  her  to  the  altar,”  said  the  Archdeacon.  He 
faced  about  and  walked  toward  the  communion  and  en¬ 
tered  it.  The  company  followed  him  and  drew  up  outside 
the  communion  rail.  He  took  a  Testament  from  the  read¬ 
ing-desk  and  stepped  toward  the  girl.  There  was  a 
dead  hush. 

“  The  Church  provides  a  remedy  for  slander,”  he  said,  in 
a  cold,  clear  tone.  “  If  you  are  not  guilty,  swear  that  you 
are  innocent,  that  he  who  tampers  with  your  good  name 
may  beware.”  With  that  the  Archdeacon  held  the  Testa¬ 
ment  toward  the  girl.  She  made  no  show  of  taking  it.  He 
thrust  it  into  her  hand.  At  the  touch  of  the  book  she 
gave  a  faint  cry  and  stepped  a  pace  backward,  the  Testa¬ 
ment  falling  open  on  to  the  penitent-form  beneath. 

Then  the  murmur  of  the  bystanders  rose  again.  The 
girl  heard  it  once  more,  and  dropped  on  her  knees  and 
covered  her  face,  and  cried,  in  a  tremulous  voice  that 
echoed  over  the  church,  “Let  me  go,  let  me  go.” 

The  company  that  came  for  the  christening  had  walked 
up  the  aisle.  Blinking  Kerry  stood  apart,  hushing  the  in¬ 
fant  in  her  arms ;  it  made  a  fretful  whimper.  Thorkell 
stood  behind,  pawing  the  paved  path  with  a  restless  foot. 
His  wife  had  made  her  way  to  the  girl’s  side,  her  eyes 
overflowing  with  compassion. 

“Take  her  to  prison  at  the  Peel,”  said  the  Archdeacon, 
“and  keep  her  there  until  she  confesses  the  name  of  her 
paramour.”  At  that,  Thorkell’s  wife  dropped  to  her 
knees  beside  the  kneeling  girl,  and  putting  one  arm  about 
her  neck,  raised  the  other  against  the  sumner,  and  cried, 
“No,  no,  no  ;  she  will  confess.” 

There  was  a  pause  and  a  long  hush.  Mally  let  her 
hands  fall  from  her  face,  and  turned  her  eyes  full  on  the 
eyes  of  the  young  mother  at  her  side.  In  dead  silence 
the  two  rose  to  their  feet  together. 

“  Confess  his  name  ;  whoever  he  is,  he  does  not  deserve 
that  you  should  suffer  for  him  as  well,”  said  the  wife  of 
Thorkell  Mylrea,  and  as  she  spoke  she  touched  the  girl’s 
white  forehead  with  her  pale  lips. 

“  Do  you  ask  that  ?  ”  said  Mally,  with  a  strange  quietness, 
for  one  swift  instant  the  eyes  of  these  women  seemed 


20 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


to  see  into  each  other’s  heart.  The  face  of  Thorkell’s  wife 
became  very  pale  ;  she  grew  faint,  and  clutched  the  com¬ 
munion  rail  as  she  staggered  back. 

At  the  next  instant  Mally  Kerruish  was  being  hurried 
by  the  sumner  down  the  aisle  ;  the  noisy  concourse  that 
had  come  with  them  went  away  with  them,  and  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  more  the  old  church  was  empty,  save  for  the  com¬ 
pany  that  had  gathered  about  the  font. 

There  was  a  great  feast  at  Ballamona  that  day.  The 
new  house  was  finished,  and  the  young  Christian,  Ewan 
Mylrea,  of  Ballamona,  was  the  first  to  enter  it ;  for  was  it 
not  to  be  his  house,  and  his  children’s,  and  his  children’s 
children’s  ? 

Thorkell’s  wife  did  not  join  the  revels,  but  in  her  new 
home  she  went  back  to  her  bed.  The  fatigue  and  excite¬ 
ment  of  the  day  had  been  too  much  for  her.  Thorkell 
himself  sat  in  his  place,  and  laughed  noisily  and  drank 
much.  Toward  sunset  the  sumner  came  to  say  that  the 
girl  who  had  been  taken  to  prison  at  the  Peel  had  con¬ 
fessed,  and  was  now  at  large.  The  Archdeacon  got  up 
and  went  out  of  the  room.  Thorkell  called  lustily  on  his 
guests  to  drink  again,  and  one  stupefied  old  crony  clam¬ 
bered  to  his  feet  and  demanded  silence  for  a  toast. 

“To  the  father  of  the  girl’s  by-blow,”  he  shouted,  when 
the  glasses  were  charged  ;  and  then  the  company  laughed 
till  the  roof  rang,  and  above  all  was  the  shrill  laugh  of 
Thorkell  Mylrea.  Presently  the  door  opened  again,  and 
the  Archdeacon,  with  a  long,  grave  face,  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  beckoned  to  Thorkell  at  the  head  of  his 
table.  Thorkell  went  out  with  him,  and  when  they  re¬ 
turned  together  a  little  later,  and  the  master  of  Ballamona 
resumed  his  seat,  he  laughed  yet  more  noisily  than  before, 
and  drank  yet  more  liquor. 

On  the  outside  of  Ballamona  that  night  an  old  woman, 
hooded  and  caped,  knocked  at  the  door.  The  loud  laugh¬ 
ter  and  the  ranting  songs  from  within  came  out  to  her 
where  she  stood  in  the  darkness,  under  the  silent  stars. 
When  the  door  was  opened  by  Hommy-beg  the  woman 
asked  for  Mylrea  Ballamona.  Hommy-beg  repulsed  her, 
and  would  have  shut  the  door  in  her  face.  She  called 
again,  and  again,  and  yet  again,  and  at  last,  by  reason  of 
her  importunity,  Hommy-beg  went  in  and  told  Thorkell, 
who  got  up  and  followed  him  out.  The  Archdeacon  heard 
the  message,  and  left  the  room  at  the  same  moment. 
Outside,  on  the  gravel  path,  the  old  woman  stood  with 


THE  DEEMS  TE1L 


$1 

the  light  of  the  lamp  that  burned  in  the  hall  on  her  wiz¬ 
ened  face.  It  was  Mrs.  Kerruish,  the  mother  of  Mally. 

“  It’s  fine  times  you’re  having  of  it,  Master  Mylrea,”  she 
said,  “and  you,  too,  your  reverence  ;  but  what  about  me 
and  my  poor  girl  ?” 

“  It  was  yourself  that  did  it,  woman,”  said  Thorkell ;  and 
he  tried  to  laugh,  but  under  the  stars  his  laugh  fell  short. 

“  Me,  you  say  ?  Me,  was  it  for  all  ?  May  the  good  God 
judge  between  us,  Master  Mylrea.  D’ye  know  what  it  is 
that  happened  ?  My  poor  girl’s  gone.” 

“Gone!” 

“  Eh,  gone — gone  off — gone  to  hide  her  shameful  face  ; 
God  help  her.” 

“  Better  luck,”  said  Thorkell,  and  a  short  gurgle  rattled 
in  his  dry  throat. 

“  Luck,  you  call  it  ?  Luck  !  Take  care,  Ballamona.” 

The  Archdeacon  interposed.  “Come,  no  threats,  my 
good  woman,”  he  said,  and  waved  his  hand  in  protestation. 
“  The  Church  has  done  you  justice  in  this  matter.” 

“Threats,  your  reverence?  Justice?  Is  it  justice  to 
punish  the  woman  and  let  the  man  go  free  ?  What !  the 
woman  to  stand  penance  six  Sabbaths  by  the  church-door 
of  six  parishes,  and  the  man  to  pay  his  dirty  money,  six 
pounds  to  you  and  three  to  me,  and  then  no  mortal  to  name 
his  name!” 

The  old  woman  rummaged  in  the  pocket  at  her  side  and 
pulled  out  a  few  coins.  “Here,  take  them  back;  I’m  no 
Judas  to  buy  my  own  girl.  Here,  I  say,  take  them  !  ” 

Thorkell  had  thrust*  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  was 
making  a  great  show  of  laughing  boisterously. 

The  old  woman  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  her  pale 
face  turned  livid.  Then  by  a  sudden  impulse  she  lifted 
her  eyes  and  her  two  trembling  arms.  “  God  in  Heaven,” 
she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  “let  Thy  wrath  rest  on  this 
man’s  head  ;  make  this  house  that  he  has  built  for  himself 
and  for  his  children  a  curse  to  him  and  them  and  theirs  ; 
bring  it  to  pass  that  no  birth  come  to  it  but  death  come 
with  it,  and  so  on  and  on  until  Thou  hast  done  justice  be¬ 
tween  him  and  me.” 

Thorkell’s  laughter  stopped  suddenly.  As  the  woman 
spoke  his  face  quivered,  and  his  knees  shook  perceptibly 
under  him.  Then  he  took  her  by  the  arms  and  clutched 
her  convulsively.  “  Woman,  woman,  what  are  you  say¬ 
ing  ?  ”  he  cried,  in  his  shrill  treble*  She  disengaged  hezseU 
and  went  away  into  the  night* 


*£  THE  DEEMSTER. 

For  a  moment  Thorkell  tramped  the  hall  with  nervous 
footsteps.  The  Archdeacon  stood  speechless.  Then  the 
sound  of  laughter  and  of  song  came  from  the  room  they 
had  left,  and  Thorkell  flung  in  on  the  merry-makers. 

“  Go  home,  go  home,  every  man  of  you  !  Away  with 
you !  ”  he  shouted,  hysterically,  and  then  dropped  like  a 
log  into  a  chair. 

One  by  one,  with  many  wise  shakes  of  many  sapient 
heads,  the  tipsy  revellers  broke  up  and  went  off,  leaving 
the  master  of  Ballamona  alone  in  that  chamber,  dense  with 
dead  smoke,  and  noisome  with  the  fumes  of  liquor* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DEEMSTER  OF  MAH. 

Twenty  times  that  night  Thorkell  devised  expedients  to 
break  the  web  of  fate.  At  first  his  thoughts  were  of  re¬ 
vengeful  defiance.  By  fair  means  or  foul  the  woman  Ker- 
ruish  should  suffer.  She  should  be  turned  out  of  house 
and  home.  She  should  tramp  the  roads  as  a  mendicant. 
He  would  put  his  foot  on  her  neck.  Then  they  would  see 
what  her  uncanny  threats  had  come  to. 

He  tried  this  unction  for  his  affrighted  spirit,  and  put  it 
aside  as  useless.  No,  no;  he  would  conciliate  the  woman. 
He  would  settle  an  annuity  of  five  pounds  a  year  upon  her; 
he  would  give  her  the  snug  gate  cottage  of  old  Ballamona 
to  live  in  ;  his  wife  should  send  her  warm  blankets  in  win¬ 
ter,  and  sometimes  a  pound  of  tea,  such  as  old  folks  love. 
Then  must  her  imprecation  fall  impotent,  and  his  own  fate 
be  undisturbed. 

Thorkell’s  bedroom  in  his  new  house  on  Slieu  Dhoo  looked 
over  the  Curraghs  to  the  sea.  As  the  day  dawned  he 
opened  the  window,  and  thrust  out  his  head  to  drink  of  the 
cool  morning  air.  The  sun  was  rising  over  the  land  behind, 
a  strong  breeze  was  sweeping  over  the  marshes  from  the 
shore,  and  the  white  curves  of  the  breakers  to  the  west  re¬ 
flected  here  and  there  the  glow  of  the  eastern  sky.  With 
the  salt  breath  of  the  sea  in  his  nostrils,  it  seemed  to  Thor¬ 
kell  a  pitiful  thing  that  a  man  should  be  a  slave  to  a  mere 
idea ;  a  thing  for  shame  and  humiliation  that  the  sneezing 
of  an  old  woman  should  disturb  the  peace  of  a  strong  man. 
Superstition  was  the  bugbear  of  the  Manxman,  but  it  would 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


a3 


die  of  shame  at  its  sheer  absurdity,  only  that  it  was  pampered 
by  the  law.  Toleration  for  superstition  !  Every  man  who 
betrayed  faith  in  omens  or  portents,  or  charms  or  spells, 
or  the  power  of  the  evil  eye,  should  be  instantly  clapped 
in  the  Castle.  It  was  but  right  that  a  rabid  dog  should  be 
muzzled. 

Thorkell  shut  the  window,  closed  the  shutters,  threw  off 
his  clothes,  and  went  back  to  bed.  In  the  silence  and  the 
darkness,  his  thoughts  took  yet  another  turn.  What  mad¬ 
ness  it  was,  what  pertness  and  unbelief,  to  reject  that  faith 
in  which  the  best  and  wisest  of  all  ages  had  lived  and  died  ! 
Had  not  omens  and  portents,  and  charms  and  spells,  and 
the  evil  eye  been  believed  in  in  all  ages  ?  What  midget  of 
modern  days  should  now  arise  with  a  superior  smile  and 
say,  “  Behold,  this  is  folly :  Saul  of  Israel  and  Saul  of  Tar¬ 
sus,  and  Samuel  and  Solomon,  rose  up  and  lay  down  in 
folly.  ” 

Thorkell  leapt  out  of  bed,  sweating  from  every  pore. 
The  old  woman,  Kerruish,  should  be  pensioned  ;  she 
should  live  in  the  cosy  cottage  at  the  gates  of  Ballamona ; 
she  should  have  blankets  and  tea  and  many  a  snug  com¬ 
fort  ;  her  daughter  should  be  brought  back  and  mar* 
ried — yes,  married — to  some  honest  fellow. 

The  lark  was  loud  in  the  sky,  the  rooks  were  stirring  in 
the  lofty  ash,  the  swallows  pecking  at  the  lattice,  when 
sleep  came  at  length  to  Thorkell’s  blood-shot  eyes,  and  he 
stretched  himself  in  a  short  and  fitful  slumber.  He  awoke 
with  a  start.  The  lusty  rap  of  Hommy-beg  was  at  the 
doer  of  his  room.  There  was  no  itinerant  postman,  and  it 
was  one  of  Hommy-beg’s  daily  duties  to  go  to  the  Post- 
office..  He  had  been  there  this  morning,  and  was  now  re¬ 
turned  with  a  letter  for  his  master. 

Thorkell  took  the  letter  with  nervous  fingers.  He  had 
recognized  the  seal — it  was  the  seal  of  the  insular  Gov¬ 
ernment.  The  letter  came  from  Castle  Rushen.  He 
broke  the  seal  and  read  : 

“  Castle  Rushen,  June  3d. 

“  Sir — I  am  instructed  by  his  Excellency  to  beg  you  to 
come  to  Castletown  without  delay,  and  to  report  your  ar¬ 
rival  at  the  Castle  to  Madam  Churchill,  who  will  see  you 
on  behalf  of  the  Duchess. 

“  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  etc.” 

The  letter  yras  signed  by  the  Secretary  to  the  Gout 

Sraor,  • 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


24 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Thorkell  could  make  nothing  of  it 
but  that  in  some  way  it  boded  ill.  In  a  bewildered  state 
of  semi-consciousness  he  ordered  that  a  horse  should  be 
got  ready  and  brought  round  to  the  front.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  had  risen  from  an  untouched  breakfast  and  was 
seated  in  the  saddle. 

He  rode  past  Tynwald  Hill  and  through  Foxdale  to  the 
south.  Twenty  times  he  drew  up  and  half-reined  his 
horse  in  another  direction.  But  he  went  on  again.  He 
could  turn  about  at  any  time.  He  never  turned  about. 
At  two  o’clock  that  day  he  stood  before  the  low  gate  of 
the  Castle  and  pulled  at  the  great  clanging  bell. 

He  seemed  to  be  expected,  and  was  immediately  led  to 
a  chamber  on  the  north  of  the  courtyard  dhe  room  was 
small  and  low  ;  it  was  dimly  lighted  by  two  lancet  win¬ 
dows  set  deep  into  walls  that  secncd  to  be  three  yards 
thick.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  rush  matting;  a  harp 
stood  near  the  fireplace.  A  lady  rose  as  Thorkell  entered. 
She  was  elderly,  but  her  dress  was  youthful.  Her  waist 
was  short;  her  embroidered  skirt  was  very  long  ;  she 
wore  spangled  shoes,  and  her  hair  was  done  into  a  knot  on 
the  top  of  her  head. 

Thorkell  stood  before  her  with  the  mien  of  a  culprit. 
She  smiled  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and  sat  herself. 

“  You  have  heard  of  the  death  of  one  of  our  two  Deem¬ 
sters  ?  ”  she  asked. 

Thorkell’s  face  whitened,  and  he  bowed  his  head. 

“  A  successor  must  soon  be  appointed,  and  the  Deemster 
is  always  a  Manxman  ;  he  must  know  the  language  of  the 
common  people.” 

Thorkell’s  face  wore  a  bewildered  expression.  The 
lady’s  manner  was  very  suave. 

“  The  appointment  is  the  gift  of  the  Lord  of  the  island, 
and  the  Duchess  is  asked  to  suggest  a  name.” 

Thorkell’s  face  lightened.  He  had  regained  all  his 
composure. 

“  The  Duchess  has  heard  a  good  account  of  you,  Mr.  Myl- 
rea.  She  is  told  that  by  your  great  industry  and — wisdom 
— you  have  raised  yourself  in  life — become  rich,  in  fact.” 

The  lady’s  voice  dropped  to  a  tone  of  most  insinuating 
suavity.  Thorkell  stammered  some  commonplace. 

“  Hush,  Mr.  Mylrea,  you  shall  not  depreciate  your¬ 
self.  The  Duchess  has  heard  that  you  are  a  man  of  en¬ 
terprise — one  who  does  not  begrudge  the  penny  that 
makes  the  pound*” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


n 

Thorkell  saw  it  all.  He  was  to  be  made  Deemster,  but 
he  was  to  buy  his  appointment.  The  Duchess  had  lost 
money  of  late,  and  the  swashbuckler  court  she  kept  had 
lately  seen  some  abridgment  of  its  gayeties. 

“To  be  brief,  Mr.  Mylrea,  the  Duchess  has  half  an  in¬ 
tention  of  suggesting  your  name  for  the  post,  but  before 
doing  so  she  wished  me  to  see  in  what  way  your  feelings 
lie  with  regard  to  it.” 

Thorkell’s  little  eyes  twinkled,  and  his  lips  took  an  up¬ 
ward  curve.  He  placed  one  hand  over  his  breast  and  bent 
his  head. 

“My  feelings,  madam,  He  in  one  way  only — the  way  of 
gratitude,”  he  said,  meekly. 

The  lady’s  face  broadened,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

“  It  is  a  great  distinction,  Mr.  Mylrea,”  said  the  lady, 
and  she  drew  her  breath  inward. 

“  The  greater  my  gratitude,”  said  Thorkell. 

“  And  how  far  would  you  go  to  show  this  gratitude  to 
the  Duchess  ?  ” 

“Any  length,  madam,”  said  Thorkell,  and  he  rose  and 
bowed. 

“The  Duchess  is  at  present  at  Bath - ” 

“  I  would  go  so  far,  and — farther,  madam,  farther,”  said 
Thorkell,  and  as  he  spoke  he  thrust  his  right  hand  deep 
into  his  pocket,  and  there — by  what  accident  may  not  be 
said — it  touched  some  coins  that  chinked. 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  the  lady  rose  and 
held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  in  a  significant  tone  : 

“  I  think,  sir,  I  may  already  venture  to  hail  you  as  Deem¬ 
ster  of  Man.” 

Thorkell  cantered  home  in  great  elevation  of  soul.  The 
milestones  fell  behind  him  one  after  one,  and  he  did  not 
feel  the  burden  of  the  way.  His  head  was  in  his  breast ; 
his  body  was  bent  over  his  saddle-bow  ;  again  and  again  a 
trill  of  light  laughter  came  from  his  lips.  Where  were  his 
dreams  now,  his  omens,  his  spells,  and  the  power  of  the 
evil  eye  ?  He  was  judge  of  his  island.  He  was  master  of 
his  fate. 

Passing  through  St.  John’s,  he  covered  the  bleak  top  of 
the  hill,  and  turned  down  toward  the  shady  copse  of  Kirk 
Michael.  Where  the  trees  were  thickest  in  the  valley  he 
drew  rein  by  a  low,  long  house  that  stood  back  to  the  road. 
It  was  the  residence  of  the  Bishop  of  the  island,  but  it  was 
now  empty.  The  bishopric  had  been  vacant  these  five 
years,  and  under  the  heavy  rains  from  the  hills  and  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*6 

strong  winds  from  the  sea,  the  old  house  had  fallen  into 
decay. 

Thorkell  sat  in  the  saddle  under  the  tall  elms  in  the  dim 
light,  and  his  mind  was  busy  with  many  thoughts.  His 
memory  went  back  with  something  akin  to  tenderness  to 
the  last  days  of  old  Ewan,  his  father ;  to  his  brother,  Gil- 
crist,  and  then,  by  a  sudden  transition,  to  the  incidents 
of  that  morning  at  Castle  Rushen.  How  far  in  the  past 
that  morning  seemed  to  be  ! 

The  last  rook  had  cawed  out  its  low  guttural  note,  and 
the  last  gleam  of  daylight  died  off  between  the  thick 
boughs  of  the  dark  trees  that  pattered  lightly  overhead, 
as  Thorkell  set  off  afresh. 

When  he  arrived  at  Ballamona  the  night  was  dark.  The 
Archdeacon  was  sitting  with  his  daughter,  who  had  not  left 
her  room  that  day.  Thorkell,  still  booted  and  spurred, 
ran  like  a  squirrel  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  bedroom.  In 
twenty  hot  words  that  were  fired  off  like  a  cloud  of  small 
shot  from  a  blunderbuss,  Thorkell  told  what  had  occurred. 
His  wife’s  white  face  showed  no  pleasure  and  betrayed  no 
surprise.  Her  silence  acted  on  Thorkell  as  a  rebuke,  and 
when  her  eyes  rested  on  his  face  he  turned  his  own  eyes 
aside.  The  Archdeacon  was  almost  speechless,  but  his 
look  of  astonishment  was  eloquent,  and  when  Thorkell 
left  the  room  he  followed  him  out. 

At  supper  the  Archdeacon’s  maimer  was  that  of  deep 
amity. 

“They  are  prompt  to  appoint  a  Deemster,”  he  said. 
“  Has  it  not  struck  you  as  strange  that  the  bishopric  has 
been  vacant  so  long  ?  ” 

Thorkell  laughed  a  little  over  his  plate,  and  answered 
that  it  was  strange. 

“  Maybe  it  only  needs  that  a  name  should  be  suggested,” 
continued  the  Archdeacon.  “That  is  to  say.  suggested  by 
a  man  of  influence,  a  man  of  position — by  the  Deemster, 
for  instance.” 

“Just  that,”  said  Thorkell,  with  a  titter. 

Then  there  was  an  interchange  of  further  amity.  When 
the  two  men  rose  from  the  table  the  Archdeacon  said, 
with  a  conscious  smile,  “Of  course,  if  you  should  oc¬ 
cur — if  you  should  ever  think — if,  that  is.  the  Deemster 
should  ever  suggest  a  name  for  the  bishopric — of  course, 
he  will  remember  that — that  blood,  in  short,  is  thicker 
than  water— rte  /mil  np  s’ dm  m  us&tijt,  as  the  Manxman 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*r 

u  I  Will  remember  it,”  said  Thorkell,  in  a  significant  tone, 
and  with  a  faint  chuckle. 

Satisfied  with  that  day’s  work,  with  himself,  and  with  the 
world,  Thorkell  then  went  off  to  bed,  and  lay  down  in  peace 
and  content,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

In  due  course  Thorkell  Mylrea  became  Deemster  Balia- 
mona. 

!  He  entered  upon  his  duties  after  the  briefest  study  of  the 
Statute  Laws.  A  Manx  judge  dispensed  justice  chiefly  by 
the  Breast  Laws,  the  unwritten  code  locked  in  his  own 
breast,  and  supposed  to  be  handed  down  from  Deemster  to 
Deemster.  The  popular  superstition  served  Thorkell  in 
good  stead  :  there  was  none  to  challenge  his  knowledge  of 
jurisprudence. 

As  soon  as  he  was  settled  in  his  office  he  began  to  make 
inquiries  about  his  brother  Gilcrist.  He  learned  that  after 
leaving  Cambridge,  Gilcrist  had  taken  deacon’s  orders,  and 
had'  become  tutor  to  the  son  of  an  English  nobleman,  and 
afterward  chaplain  to  the  nobleman’s  household.  Thor¬ 
kell  addressed  him  a  letter,  and  received  a  reply,  and  this 
was  the  first  intercourse  of  the  brothers  since  the  death  of 
old  Ewan.  Gilcrist  had  lately  married  ;  he  held  a  small 
living  on  one  of  the  remote  moors  of  Yorkshire  ;  he  loved 
his  people  and  was  beloved  by  them.  Thorkell  wrote  again 
and  again,  and  yet  again,  and  his  letters  ran  through  every 
tone  of  remonstrance  and  entreaty.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
the  Deemster  paid  yet  another  visit  to  the  lady  deputy  at 
Castle  Rushen,  and  the  rumor  passed  over  the  island  that 
the  same  potent  influence  that  had  made  Thorkell  a  Deem¬ 
ster  was  about  to  make  his  brother  the  Bishop  of  Man. 

Then  the  Archdeacon  came  down  in  white  wrath  to  Bal- 
iamona,  and  reminded  his  son-in-law  of  his  many  obliga¬ 
tions,  touched  cm  benefits  forgot,  hinted  at  dark  sayings 
and  darker  deeds,  mentioned,  with  a  significant  accent,  the 
girl  Mally  Kerruish,  protested  that  from  causes  not  to  be 
named  he  had  lost  the  esteem  of  his  clergy  and  the  rever¬ 
ence  of  his  flock,  and  wound  up  with  the  touching  assur¬ 
ance  that  on  that  very  morning,  as  he  rode  from  Andreas, 
he  had  overheard  a  burly  Manxman  say  to  the  tawny- 
headed  fellow  who  walked  with  him — both  of  them  the 
scabbiest  sheep  on  the  hills — “  There  goes  the  pazon  that 
sold  his  daughter  and  bought  her  husband.” 

Thorkell  listened  to  the  torrent  of  reproaches,  andithea 
said,  quietly,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel,  “  Near  is  my  shirty 
but  nearer  is  my  skin.” 


'HE  DEEMSTER. 


«8 

The  Deemster  s  wife  held  up  her  head  no  more.  Aft«f 
the  christening  she  rarely  left  her  room.  Her  cheeks  grew 
thinner,  paler  they  could  not  grow,  and  her  meek  eyes  lost 
their  faint  lustre.  She  spoke  little,  and  her  interest  in  life 
seemed  to  be  all  but  gone.  There  was  the  same  abject 
submission  to  her  husband,  but  she  saw  less  of  him  day  by 
day.  Only  the  sight  of  her  babe,  when  Kerry  brought  it 
to  be  nursed,  restored  to  her  face  the  light  of  a  fleeting  joy. 
If  it  stayed  too  long  at  her  breast,  if  it  cried,  if  its  winsome 
ways  made  her  to  laugh  outright,  the  swift  recoil  of  other 
feelings  saddened  her  to  melancholy,  and  she  would  put 
the  child  from  her  with  a  sigh.  This  went  on  for  several 
months,  and  meantime  the  Deemster  was  too  deeply  im« 
mersed  in  secular  affairs  to  make  serious  note  of  the  shadow 
that  hung  over  his  house.  “ Goll  sheese  ny  Ihiargagh — she's 
going  down  the  steep  places,"  said  Kerry. 

It  was  winter  when  Gilcrist  %Mylrea  was  appointed  to 
reach  the  island,  but  he  wrote  that  his  wife’s  health  was 
failing  her,  that  it  was  not  unlikely  that  she  was  to  bear  a 
child,  and  that  he  preferred  to  postpone  his  journey  until 
the  spring.  Before  the  gorse  bushes  on  the  mountains 
had  caught  their  new  spears  of  green,  and  before  the 
fishermen  of  Peeltown  had  gone  down  to  the  sea  for  theif 
first  mackerel,  Thorkell’s  wife  was  lying  in  her  last  illness. 
She  sent  for  her  husband  and  bade  him  farewell.  The 
Deemster  saw  no  danger,  and  he  laughed  at  her  meek 
adieu.  She  was  soon  to  be  the  mother  of  another  of  his 
children — that  was  all.  But  she  shook  her  head  when  he 
rallied  her,  and  when  he  lifted  the  little  creeping,  cooing, 
babbling  Ewan  from  the  floor  to  his  mother’s  bed,  and 
laughed  and  held  up  his  long,  lean,  hairy  finger  before  the 
baby  face  and  asked  the  little  one  with  a  puff  how  he 
would  like  a  little  sister,  the  white  face  on  the  pillow 
twitched  and  fell,  and  the  meek  eyes  filled,  and  the  shadow 
was  over  all. 

“  Good-by,  Thorkell,  and  for  baby’s  sake - ’* 

But  a  shrill  peal  of  Thorkell’s  laughter  rang  through 
the  chamber,  and  at  the  next  instant  he  was  gone  from 
the  room. 

That  day  the  wife  of  the  Deemster  passed  beyond  the 
sorrows  of  the  life  that  had  no  joys.  The  angels  of  life 
and  death  had  come  with  linked  hands  to  the  new  home¬ 
stead  of  Ballamona,  and  the  young  mother  had  died  in 
giving  birth  to  a  girl. 

When  the  Deemster  heard  what  had  happened,  hia 


The  deemster. 


\btid  scream  rang  through  every  room  of  the  house.  His 
soul  was  in  ferment  ;  he  seemed  to  be  appalled,  and  to  be 
stricken,  not  with  sorrow,  but  with  fright  and  horror. 

“She’s  dead  ;  why,  she’s  dead,  she’s  dead,”  he  cried,  hys¬ 
terically  ;  “  why  did  not  somebody  tell  me  that  she  would 
die?” 

The  Deemster  buried  his  wife  by  the  side  of  old  Ewan, 
under  the  elder-tree  that  grew  by  the  wall  of  the  church¬ 
yard  that  stands  over  by  the  sea.  He  summoned  no 
mourners,  and  few  stood  with  him  by  the  open  grave. 
During  the  short  funeral,  his  horse  was  tied  to  the  cross¬ 
timbers  of  the  lych-gate,  and  while  the  earth  was  still  fall¬ 
ing  in  hollow  thuds  from  the  sexton’s  spade,  Thorkell  got 
into  the  saddle  and  rode  away. 

Before  sunset  he  waited  by  the  wooden  landing  jetty  at 
Derby  Haven.  The  old  sea-tub,  the  King  Orry,  made  the 
port  that  day,  and  disembarked  her  passengers.  Among 
them  was  the  new  Bishop  of  Man,  Gilcrist  Mylrea.  He 
looked  much  older  for  the  six  years  he  had  been  away. 
His  tall  figure  stooped  heavily;  his  thick  hair  fell  in  wave¬ 
lets  on  his  shoulders,  and  was  already  sprinkled  with  gray  ; 
his  long  cheeks  were  deeply  lined.  As  he  stepped  from 
the  boat  on  to  the  jetty  he  carried  something  very  ten¬ 
derly  in  his  arms.  He  seemed  to  be  alone. 

The  brothers  met  with  looks  of  constraint  and  bewil¬ 
derment. 

“  Where  is  your  wife  ?”  asked  Thorkell. 

“  She  is  gone,”  said  Gilcrist.  “I  have  nothing  left  of  her 
but  this,”  and  he  looked  down  at  the  burden  at  his  breast. 

It  was  a  baby-boy.  Thorkell’s  face  whitened,  and  terror 
was  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V. 
the  Manxman’s  bishop. 

Gilcrist  Mylrea  had  been  confirmed  Bishop,  and  conse¬ 
crated  in  England  ;  but  he  had  to  be  installed  in  his  cathe¬ 
dral  church  at  Peeltown  with  all  the  honors  of  the  insular 
decrees.  The  ceremony  was  not  an  imposing  one.  Few  of 
the  native  population  witnessed  it.  The  Manxman  did  not 
love  the  Church  with  a  love  too  fervent.  “  Pazon,  pazon,” 
he  would  say,  “  what  can  you  expect  from  the  like  o’  that? 
Never  no  duck  wasn't  hatched  by  a  drake#” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


& 

It  wa§  no  merit  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  that  the  new 
Bishop  was  himself  a  Manxman.  “Aw,  man/’  they  would 
say,  “  I  knew  his  father/’  and  knowledge  of  the  father  im« 
plied  a  limitation  of  the  respect  due  to  the  son.  “  What’s 
his  family  ?  ”  would  be  asked  again  and  again  across  the 
hearth  that  scarcely  knew  its  own  family  more  intimately. 
“  Maybe  some  of  the  first  that’s  going,”  would  be  the  an¬ 
swer,  and  then  there  would  be  a  laugh. 

The  Bishop  was  enthroned  by  Archdeacon  Teare,  who 
filled  his  function  with  what  grace  his  chagrin  would  allow. 
Thorkell  watched  his  father-in-law  keenly  during  the  cere¬ 
mony,  and  more  than  once  his  little  eyes  twinkled,  and  his 
lips  were  sucked  inward  as  if  he  rolled  a  delectable  morsel 
on  his  tongue.  Archdeacon  Teare  was  conscious  of  the 
close  fire  of  his  son-in-law’s  gaze,  and  after  the  installation 
was  done,  and  the  clergy  that  constituted  priests  and  con¬ 
gregation  were  breaking  up,  he  approached  the  Deemster 
with  a  benevolent  smile,  and  said,  “  Well,  Thorkell,  we’ve 
had  some  disagreements,  but  we'll  all  meet  for  peace  and 
harmony  in  heaven.  ” 

The  Deemster  tittered  audibly,  and  said,  “  I'm  not  so 
sure  of  that,  though.” 

“No?”  said  the  Archdeacon,  with  elevated  eyebrows. 
41  Why— why?” 

“Because  we  read  in  the. Good  Book  that  there  will  bo 
no  more  tears ,  Archdeacon,”  said  Thorkell,  with  a  laugh 
like  the  whinny  of  a  colt. 

The  Bishop  and  his  brother,  the  Deemster,  got  on  their 
horses,  and  turned  their  heads  toward  the  episcopal  pal¬ 
ace.  It  was  late  when  they  drove  under  the  tall  elms  of 
Bishop’s  Court.  The  old  house  was  lit  up  for  their  recep¬ 
tion.  Half-blind  Kerry  Quayle  had  come  over  from  Bal- 
lamona  to  nurse  the  Bishop’s  child,  and  to  put  him  to  bed 
in  his  new  home.  “  Och,  as  sweet  a  baby-boy  as  any  on 
the  island,  I’ll  go  bail,  as  the  old  body  said,”  said  Kerry,  and 
the  Bishop  patted  her  arm  with  a  gentle  familiarity.  He 
went  up  to  the  little  room  where  the  child  lay  asleep,  and 
stooped  over  the  cot  and  touched  with  his  lips  the  soft  lips 
that  breathed  gently.  The  dignity  of  the  Bishop  as  he 
stood  four  hours  before  under  the  roof  of  St.  German's  had 
sat  less  well  on  this  silent  man  than  the  tenderness  of  the 
father  by  the  side  of  his  motherless  child. 

Thorkell  was  in  great  spirits  that  night.  Twenty  times 
he  drank  to  the  health  of  the  new  Bishop  ;  twenty  times  he 
reminded  him  of  his  own  gracious  offices  toward  securing 


r 


THE  fiMEMSm#. 


81 


the  bishopric  to  one  of  his  own  family.  Gilcrist  smiled, 
and  responded  in  few  words.  He  did  not  deceive  himself  ; 
his  eyes  were  open.  He  knew  that  Thorkell  had  not  been 
so  anxious  to  make  him  a  Bishop  as  to  prevent  a  place  of 
honor  and  emolument  from  going  to  anyone  less  near  to 
himself  than  his  own  brother.  “  Near  is  my  shirt,”  as  Thor¬ 
kell  had  told  the  Archdeacon,  “but  nearer  is  my  skin.” 

Next  day  the  Bishop  lost  no  time  in  settling  to  his  work. 
His  people  watched  him  closely.  He  found  his  palace  in 
a  forlorn  and  dilapidated  state,  and  the  episcopal  demesne, 
which  was  about  a  square  mile  of  glebe,  as  fallow  as  the 
rough  top  of  the  mountains.  The  money  value  of  this  bish¬ 
opric  was  rather  less  than  ^500  a  year,  but  out  of  this 
income  he  set  to  work  to  fence  and  drain  his  lands,  plant 
trees,  and  restore  his  house  to  comfort,  if  not  to  stateliness. 
“I  find  my  Patmos  in  ruins,” he  said,  “and  that  will  oblige 
me  to  interrupt  my  charity  to  the  poor  in  some  measure.” 

He  assumed  none  of  the  social  dignity  of  a  Bishop.  '  He 
had  no  carriage,  and  no  horse  for  riding.  When  he  made 
his  pastoral  visitations  he  went  afoot.  The  journey  to 
Douglas  he  called  crossing  the  Pyrenees  ;  and  he  likened 
the  toilsome  tramp  across  the  heavy  Curraghs  from  Bish¬ 
op  s  Court  to  Kirk  Andreas  to  the  passing  of  pilgrims 
across  a  desert.  “To  speak  truth,”  he  would  say,  “  I  have 
a  title  too  large  for  my  scant  fortune  to  maintain.” 

#  His  first  acts  of  episcopal  authority  did  not  conciliate 
either  the  populace  or  their  superiors  in  station.  He  set  his 
face  against  the  contraband  trade,  and  refused  communion 
to  those  who  followed  it.  .  “Och,  terrible,  wonderful  hard 
on  the  poor  man  he  is,  with  his  laws  agen  honest  trading, 
and  his  by-laws  and  his  customs  and  his  canons  and  the 
like  o'  that  messing.” 

K  was  soon  made  clearthat  the  Bishop  did  not  court  pop¬ 
ularity.  He  started  a  school  in  each  of  the  parishes  by  the 
help  of  a  lady,  who  settled  a  bounty,  payable  at  the  Bish¬ 
op’s  pleasure,  for  the  support  of  the  teachers.  The  teach¬ 
ers  were  appointed  by  his  vicars-general.  One  day  a 
number  of  the  men  of  his  own  parish,  with  Jabez  Gawne, 
the  sleek  little  tailor,  and  Matthias  Jubman,  the  buirdly 
maltster,  at  their  head,  came  up  to  Bishop’s  Court  to  com¬ 
plain  of  the  school-master  appointed  to  Kirk  Michael. 
According  to  the  malcontents,  the  school-master  was  un¬ 
able  to  divide  his  syllables,  and  his  home,  which  was  the 
school-house  also,  was  too  remote  for  the  convenience  of 
the  children.  “So  we  beseech  your  Lordship/’  said  little 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


& 

Jabez,  who  was  spokesman,  “  to  allow  us  a  fit  person  to  dis¬ 
charge  the  office,  and  with  submission  we  will  recommend  one. 
The  Bishop  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance  ;  Jabez’s  last 
words  had  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  it  could  not  be 
said  to  be  a  Manx  cat,  for  it  had  a  most  prodigious  tail. 
Next  day  the  Bishop  went  to  the  school,  examined  master 
and  scholars,  then  called  the  petitioners  together,  and  said : 
“I  find  that  James  Quirk  is  qualified  to  teach  an  English 
school,  and  I  cannot  remove  him  ;  but  I  am  of  your  opin¬ 
ion  that  his  house  is  in  a  remote  part  of  the  parish,  and  I 
shall  expect  the  parishioners  to  build  a  new  school-house 
in  a  convenient  place,  near  the  church,  within  a  reasonable 
time,  otherwise  the  bounty  cannot  be  continued  to  them/' 
The  answer  staggered  the  petitioners  ;  but  they  were  men 
with  the  saving  grace  of  humor,  and  through  the  mouth 
of  little  Jabez,  which  twisted  into  curious  lines,  they  forth¬ 
with  signified  to  his  Lordship  their  earnest  desire  to  meet 
his  wish  by  building  their  school-house  within  the  church¬ 
yard. 

Though  a  zealous  upholder  of  Church  authority,  the 
Bishop  was  known  to  temper  justice  with  mercy.  He  had 
not  been  a  month  in  the  diocese  when  his  sumner  told  him 
a  painful  story  of  hard  penance.  A  young  girl  from  near 
Peeltown  had  been  presented  for  incontinence,  and  with  the 
partner  of  her  crime  she  had  been  ordered  to  stand  six  Sun¬ 
days  at  the  door  of  six  churches.  The  man,  who  was  rich, 
had  compounded  with  the  Archdeacon,  paying  six  pounds 
for  exemption,  and  being  thenceforward  no  more  men¬ 
tioned  ;  but  the  woman,  being  penniless  and  appalled  at 
the  disgrace  before  her,  had  fled  from  the  island.  The 
Archdeacon  had  learned  her  whereabouts  in  England,  and 
had  written  to  the  minister  of  the  place  to  acquaint  him 
that  she  was  under  the  Church's  censure.  The  minister, 
on  his  part,  had  laid  before  her  the  terror  of  her  position 
if  she  died  out  of  communion  with  God’s  people.  She  re¬ 
sisted  all  appeals  until  her  time  came,  and  then,  in  her 
travail,  the  force  of  the  idea  had  worked  upon  her,  and 
she  could  resist  it  no  more.  When  she  rose  from  bed  she 
returned  voluntarily  to  the  island,  with  the  sign  of  her 
shame  at  her  breast,  to  undergo  the  penance  of  her  crime.  J 
She  had  stood  three  Sundays  at  the  doors  of  three  churches,  I 
but  her  health  was  feeble,  and  she  could  scarcely  carry  her| 
child,  so  weak  was  she,  and  so  long  the  distances  from  her 
lodging  in  Peeltown.  “Let  her  be  pardoned  the  rest  of 
her  penance/’  said  the  Bishop.  “  The  Churchy 


THE  DEEMSTER, . 


33 


was  not  passed  on  her  to  afflict  her  with  overmuch  shame 
or  sorrow.* 

It  was  not  until  years  afterward  that  the  Bishop  learned 
the  full  facts  of  the  woman’s  case,  and  comprehended  the 
terrible  significance  of  her  punishment.  She  was  Mally 
Kerruish. 

The  island  was  in  the  province  of  York,  and  bound  by 
the  English  canons,  but  the  Bishop  made  his  own  can¬ 
ons,  and  none  were  heard  to  demur.  Some  of  his  judg¬ 
ments  were  strange,  but  all  leaned  toward  the  weaker 
side.  A  man  named  Quayle  the  Gyke,  a  blusterous  fellow, 
a  thorn  in  the  side  of  every  official  within  a  radius  of 
miles,  died  after  a  long  illness,  leaving  nothing  to  a  legiti¬ 
mate  son  who  had  nursed  him  affectionately.  This  seemed 
to  the  Bishop  to  be  contrary  to  natural  piety,  and  in  the 
exercise  of  his  authority  he  appointed  the  son  an  execu¬ 
tor  with  the  others.  Quayle  the  younger  lived,  as  we 
shall  see,  to  return  evil  for  the  Bishop’s  good.  A  rich 
man  of  bad  repute,  Thormod  Mylechreest,  died  intestate, 
leaving  an  illegitimate  son.  The  Bishop  ordered  the  ordi¬ 
nary  to  put  aside  a  sum  of  money  out  of  the  estate  for  the 
maintenance  and  education  of  the  child.  But  Thorkell 
came  down  in  the  name  of  the  civil  power,  reversed  the 
spiritual  judgment,  ordered  that  the  whole  belongings  of 
the  deceased  should  be  confiscated  to  the  Lord  of  the  Isle, 
and  left  the  base-begotten  to  charity.  We  shall  also  see 
that  the  bastard  returned  good  for  Thorkell’s  evil. 

The  canons  and  customs  of  Bishop  Mylrea  not  only 
leaned — sometimes  with  too  great  indulgence — to  the 
weaker  side,  but  they  supposed  faith  in  the  people  by  al¬ 
lowing  a  voluntary  oath  as  evidence,  and  this  made  false 
swearing  a  terror.  Except  in  the  degree  of  superstition, 
he  encouraged  belief  in  all  its  forms.  He  trusted  an  oath 
implicitly,  but  no  man  ever  heard  him  gainsay  his  yea  or 
nay. 

A  hoary  old  dog  known  as  Billy  the  Gawk,  who  had 
never  worked  within  living  memory,  who  lived,  as  they 
said,  “on  the. houses,”  and  frequented  the  pot-house  with 
more  than  the  regularity  of  religious  observance,  was  not 
long  in  finding  out  that  Bishop’s  Court  had  awakened 
from  its  protracted  sleep.  The  Bishop  had  been  abroad 
for  his  morning’s  ramble,  and  sitting  on  the  sunny  side  of 
a  high  turf  hedge  looking  vacantly  out  to  sea,  he  heard 
footsteps  on  the  road  behind  him,  and  then  a  dialogue, 
of  which  this  is  a  brief  summary  : 


34 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


“  Going  up  to  the  Coort,  eh  ?  Ah,  well,  it’s  plenty  that’9 
thqre  to  take  the  edge  off  your  stomach  ;  plenty,  plenty, 
and  a  rael  welcome  too.” 

“  Ah,  it’s  not  the  stomach  that’s  bothering  me.  It’s  the 
narves,  boy— the  narves — and  a  drop  of  the  rael  stuff  is 
worth  a  Jew’s  eye  for  studdying  a  man  after  a  night  of  it, 
as  the  saying  is.” 

“Aw,  Billy,  Billy — aw  well,  well,  well.” 

The  conversation  died  off  on  the  Bishop’s  ear  in  a  loud 
roystering  laugh  and  a  low  gurgle  as  undertone. 

Half  an  hour  later  Billy  the  Gawk  stood  before  the 
Bishop  inside  the  gates  of  Bishop’s  Court.  The  old  dog’s 
head  hung  low,  his  battered  hat  was  over  his  eyes,  and 
both  his  trembling  hands  leaned  heavily  on  his  thick 
blackthorn  stick. 

“And  how  do  you  live,  my  man  ?”  asked  the  Bishop. 

“  I’m  getting  a  bite  here,  and  a  sup  there,  and  I’ve  had 
terrible  little  but  a  bit  o’  barley  bread  since  yesterday 
morning,”  said  the  Gawk. 

“  Poor  man,  that’s  hard  fare,”  said  the  Bishop ;  “  but 
mind  you  call  here  every  day  for  the  future.” 

Billy  got  a  measure  of  corn  worth  sixpence,  and  went 
straightway  to  the  village,  where  he  sold  it  at  the  pot-house 
for  as  much  liquor  as  could  have  been  bought  for  three- 
halfpence.  And  as  Billy  the  Gawk  drank  his  drop  of  the 
real  stuff  he  laughed  very  loud  and  boasted  that  he  could 
outwit  the  Bishop.  But  the  liquor  got  into  his  head,  and 
from  laughing  he  went  on  to  swearing,  and  thence  to  fight¬ 
ing,  until  the  innkeeper  turned  him  out  into  the  road, 
where,  under  the  weight  of  his  measure  of  corn  taken  in 
solution,  Billy  sunk  into  a  dead  slumber.  The  Bishop 
chanced  to  take  an  evening  walk  that  day,  and  he  found 
his  poor  pensioner,  who  fared  hard,  lodged  on  a  harder 
bed,  and  he  had  him  picked  up  and  carried  into  the  house. 
Next  morning,  when  Billy  awoke  and  found  where  he 
was,  and  remembered  what  had  occurred,  an  unaccus¬ 
tomed  sensation  took  possession  of  him,  and  he  stole  away 
unobserved.  The  hoary  old  dog  was  never  seen  again  at 
Bishop’s  Court. 

But  if  Billy  never  came  again  his  kith  and  kin  came 
frequently.  It  became  a  jest  that  the  Bishop  kept  the 
beggars  from  every  house  but  his  own,  and  that  no  one 
else  could  get  a  beggar. 

He  had  a  book,  which  he  called  his  “  Matricula  Pauper- 
Um/’  in  which  he  entered  the  names  of  his  pensioners. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3$ 

with  notes  of  their  circumstances.  He  knew  all  the  bits 
of  family  history — when  Jemmy  Corkell’s  wife  was  down 
with  lumbago,  and  when  Robbie  Quirk  was  to  kill  his  lit¬ 
tle  pig. 

Billy  the  Gawk  was  not  alone  in  thinking  that  he  could 
outwit  the  Bishop.  When  the  Bishop  wanted  a  new  pair 
of  boots  or  a  new  coat,  the  tailor  or  shoemaker  came  to 
Bishop’s  Court,  and  was  kept  there  until  his  job  of  work 
was  finished.  The  first  winter  after  his  arrival  in  his  Pat¬ 
inos,  he  wanted  a  cloak,  and  sent  for  Jabez  Gawne,  the 
sleek  little  fox  who  had  been  spokesman  for  the  conspira¬ 
tors  against  James  Quirk,  the  school-master.  Jabez  had 
cut  out  the  cloak,  and  was  preparing  it  for  a  truly  gor¬ 
geous  adornment,  when  the  Bishop  ordered  him  to  put 
merely  a  button  and  a  loop  on  it  to  keep  it  together.  Ja¬ 
bez  thereupon  dropped  his  cloth  and  held  up  his  hands 
where  he  sat  cross-legged  on  the  kitchen  dresser,  and  ex¬ 
claimed,  with  every  accent  of  aggrieved  surprise  : 

“My  Lord,  what  would  become  of  the  poor  button- 
makers  and  their  families  if  everyone  ordered  his  tailor  in 
that  way  ?  ” 

“  How  so,  Jabez  ? 

“Why,  they  would  be  starved  outright,” 

“  Do  you  say  so,  Jabez  ?  " 

“Yes,  my  Lord,  I  do." 

“Then  button  it  all  over,  Jabez,"  said  the  Bishop. 

The  Deemster  was  present  at  that  interview,  and  went 
away  from  it  tittering  audibly. 

“Give  to  the  raven  and  he’ll  come  again,"  he  muttered. 

“I  forgot  that  poor  Jabez  would  have  his  buttons  in 
his  breeches-pocket,”  said  the  Bishop. 

The  Manxman  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  concern¬ 
ing  the  composite  character  of  Bishop  Mylrea,  his  dignity 
and  his  humility,  his  reserve  and  his  simplicity,  when  a 
great  event  settled  for  the  Manxman’s  heart  the  problem 
that  had  been  too  much  for  his  head.  This,  was  no  less  a 
catastrophe  than  a  general  famine.  It  came  upon  the  isl- 
and  in  the  second  year  of  the  Bishop’s  residence,  and  was 
the  cause  of  many  changes.  One  of  the  changes  was  that 
the  Bishop  came  to  be  regarded  by  his  people  with  the 
reverence  of  Israel  for  Samuel,  and  by  his  brother,  the 
Deemster,  with  the  distrust,  envy,  and,  at  length,  mingled 
fear  and  hatred  of  Saul  for  Israel's  prophet. 

The  land  of  the  island  had  been  neld  under  a  tenure  of 
Straw,  known  as  the  three-lives’  tenure ;  the  third  life  was 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


36 

everywhere  running  out,  and  the  farms  wer(f  reverting  to 
the  Lord  of  the  Isle.  This  disheartened  the  farmers,  who 
lost  all  interest  in  agriculture,  let  their  lands  lie  fallow, 
and  turned  to  the  only  other  industry  in  which  they  had 
an  interest,  the  herring  fishing.  The  herrings  failed  this 
season,  and  without  fish,  with  empty  barns,  and  a  scant 
potato  crop,  caused  by  a  long  summer  of  drought,  the 
people  were  reduced  to  poverty. 

Then  the  Bishop  opened  wider  the  gates  of  Bishop’s 
Court,  which  since  his  coming  had  never  been  closed. 
Heaven  seemed  to  have  given  him  a  special  blessing. 
The  drought  had  parched  up  the  grass  even  of  the  damp 
Curragh,  and  left  bleached  on  the  whitening  mould  the 
poor,  thin,  dwarfed  corn,  that  could  never  be  reaped.  But 
the  glebe  of  Bishop’s  Court  gave  fair  crops,  and  when 
the  people  cried  in  the  grip  of  their  necessity  the  Bishop 
sent  round  a  pastoral  letter  to  his  clergy,  saying  that  he 
Lad  eight  hundred  bushels  of  wheat,  barley,  and  oats  more 
than  his  household  required.  Then  there  came  from  the 
north  and  the  south,  the  east  and  the  west,  long,  strag¬ 
gling  troops  of  buyers  with  little  or  no  money  to  buy, 
and  Bishop’s  Court  was  turned  into  a  public  market.  The 
Bishop  sold  to  those  who  had  money  at  the  price  that  corn 
fetched  before  the  famine,  and  in  his  barn  behind  the 
house  he  kept  a  chest  for  those  who  came  in  at  the  back 
with  nothing  but  a  sack  in  their  hands.  Once  a  day  he 
inspected  the  chest,  and  when  it  was  low,  which  was  fre¬ 
quently,  he  replenished  it,  and  when  it  was  high,  which 
was  rarely,  he  smiled,  and  said  that  God  was  turning  away 
his  displeasure  from  his  people. 

The  eight  hundred  bushels  were  at  an  end  in  a  month, 
and  still  the  famine  continued.  Then  the  Bishop  bought 
eight  hundred  other  bushels :  wheat  at  ten  shillings,  bar¬ 
ley  at  six  shillings,  and  oats  at  four  shillings,  and  sold  them 
at  half  these  prices.  He  gave  orders  that  the  bushel  of 
the  poor  man  was  not  to  be  stroked,  but  left  in  heaped- 
up  measure. 

A  second  month  went  by ;  the  second  eight  hundred 
bushels  were  consumed,  and  the  famine  showed  no  abate-  ' 
ment.  The  Bishop  waited  for  vessels  from  Liverpool,  but 
no  vessels  came.  He  was  a  poor  priest,  with  a  great  title,  ; 
and  he  had  little  money ;  but  he  wrote  to  England  asking 
for  a  thousand  bushels  of  grain  and  five  hundred  kischen 
of  potatoes,  and  promised  to  pay  at  six  days  after  the  next 
annual  revenue.  A  week  of  weary  waiting  ensued,  and 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


37 


every  day  the  Bishop  cheered  the  haggard  folk  that  came 
to  Bishop’s  Court  with  accounts  of  the  provisions  that 
were  coming  ;  and  every  day  they  went  up  on  to  the  head 
of  the  hill,  and  strained  their  bleared  eyes  seaward  for  the 
sails  of  an  English  ship.  When  patience  was  worn  to  de¬ 
spair,  the  old King  Urry  ”  brought  the  Bishop  a  letter 
saying  that  the  drought  had  been  general,  that  the  famine 
was  felt  throughout  the  kingdom,  and  that  an  embargo 
had  been  put  on  all  food  to  forbid  traders  to  send  it  from 
English  shores.  Then  the  voice  of  the  hungry  multitudes 
went  up  in  one  deep  cry  of  pain.  “  The  hunger  is  on  us,” 
they  moaned.  “  Poor  once,  poor  forever,”  they  muttered  ; 
and  the  voice  of  the  Bishop  was  silent. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  further  disaster  threatened  the 
people.  Their  cattle,  which  they  could  not  sell,  they  had 
grazed  on  the  mountains,  and  the  milk  of  the  cows  had 
been  the  chief  food  of  the  children,  and  the  wool  of  the 
sheep  the  only  clothing  of  their  old  men.  With  parched 
meadows  and  Curraghs,  where  the  turf  was  so  dry  that  it 
would  take  fire  from  the  sun,  the  broad  tops  of  the  furze- 
covered  hills  were  the  sole  resource  of  the  poor.  At  day¬ 
break  the  shepherd  with  his  six  ewe  lambs  and  one  goat, 
and  the  day  laborer  with  his  cow,  would  troop  up  to  where 
the  grass  looked  greenest,  and  at  dusk  they  would  come 
down  to  shelter,  with  weary  limbs  and  heavy  hearts. 
“  What’s  it  sayin’,”  they  would  mutter,  “  a  green  hill  when 
far  from  me  ;  bare,  bare,  when  it  is  near.” 

At  this  crisis  it  began  to  be  whispered  that  the  Deem¬ 
ster  had  made  an  offer  to  the  Lord  to  rent  the  whole 
stretch  of  mountain  land  from  Ramsey  to  Peeltown.  The 
rumor  created  consternation,  and  was  not  at  first  believed. 
But  one  day  the  Deemster,  with  the  Governor  of  the 
Grand  Enquest,  drove  to  the  glen  at  Sulby  and  went  up 
the  hill-side.  Not  long  after,  a  light  cart  was  seen  to  fol¬ 
low  the  high  road  to  the  glen  beyond  Ballaugh,  and  then 
turn  up  toward  the  mountains  by  the  cart  track.  The 
people  who  were  grazing  their  cattle  on  the  hills  came 
down  and  gathered  with  the  people  of  the  valleys  at  the 
foot,  and  there  were  dark  faces  and  firm  set  lips  among 
them,  and  hot  words  and  deep  oaths  were  heard.  “  Let's 
off  to  the  Bishop,”  said  one,  and  then  went  to  Bishop’s 
Court.  Half  an  hour  later  the  Bishop  came  from  Bishop’s 
Court  at  the  head  of  a  draggled  company  of  men,  and 
his  face  was  white  and  hard.  They  overtook  the  cart  half¬ 
way  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  the  Bishop  called  on 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


the  drive?  to  stop,  and  asked  what  he  carried,  and  where 
he  was  going.  The  man  answered  that  he  had  provisions 
for  the  Governor,  the  Deemster,  and  the  Grand  Enquest, 
who  were* surveying  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 

The  Bishop  looked  round,  and  his  lip  was  set,  and  his 
nostrils  quivered.  “Can  any  man  lend  me  a  knife?”  he 
asked,  with  a  strained  quietness. 

%  A  huge  knife  was  handed  to  him,  such  as  shepherds 
carry  in  the  long  legs  of  their  boots.  He  stepped  to  the 
cart  and  ripped  up  the  harness,  which  was  rope  harness, 
the  shafts  fell  and  the  horse  was  free.  Then  the  Bishop 
turned  to  the  driver  and  said  very  quietly : 

“Where  do  you  live,  my  man  ?” 

“At  Sulby,  my  Lord,”  said  the  man,  trembling  with  fear. 

“  You  shall  have  leather  harness  to-morrow.” 

Then  the  Bishop  went  on,  his  soiled  and  draggled  com¬ 
pany  following  him,  the  cart  lying  helpless  in  the  cart 
track  behind  them. 

When  they  got  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  they  could 
see  the  Governor  and  the  Deemster  and  their  associates 
stretching  the  chain  in  the  purple  distance.  The  Bishop 
made  in  their  direction,  and  when  he  came  up  with  them 
he  said  : 

“Gentlemen,  no  food  will  reach  you  on  the  mountains 
to-day  ;  the  harness  of  your  cart  has  been  cut,  and  cart 
and  provisions  arejying  on  the  hillside.” 

At  thisThorkell  turned  white  with  wrath,  and  clenched 
his  fists  and  stamped  his  foot  on  the  turf,  and  looked 
piercingly  into  the  faces  of  the  Bishop’s  followers. 

“As  sure  as  I’m  Deemster,”  he  said,  with  an  oath,  “the 
man  who  has  done  this  shall  suffer.  Don’t  let  him  deceive  j 
himself — no  one,  not  even  the  Bishop  himself,  shall  step 
in  between  that  man  and  the  punishment  of  the  law.” 

The  Bishop  listened  with  calmness,  and  then  said,  j 
“  Thorkell,  the  Bishop  will  not  intercede  for  him.  Pun¬ 
ish  him  if  you  can.  ” 

“And  so,  by  God,  I  will,”  cried  the  Deemster,  and  his 
eye  traversed  the  men  behind  his  brother. 

The  Bishop  then  took  a  step  forward.  “7  am  that  man,” 
he  said,  and  then  there  was  a  great  silence. 

Thorkell’s  face  flinched,  his  head  fell  between  his  shoul¬ 
ders,  his  manner  grew  dogged,  he  said  not  a  word,  his 
braggadocio  was  gone. 

The  Bishop  approached  the  Governor.  “You  have  no 
moiG  right  to  rent  th^se  mountains  than  to  rent  yonder 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


39 

he  said,  and  he  stretched  his  arm  toward  the  broad, 
blue  line  to  the  west.  “  They  belong  to  God  and  to  the 
poor.  Let  me  warn  you,  sir,  that  as  sure  as  you  set  up 
one  stone  to  enclose  these  true  God’s  acres,  I  shall  be  the 
first  to  pull  that  stone  down.” 

The  Grand  Enquest  broke  up  in  confusion,  and  the 
mountains  were  saved  to  the  people. 

It  blew  hard  on  the  hill-top  that  day,  and  the  next 
morning  the  news  spread  through  the  island  that  a  ship 
laden  with  barley  had  put  in  from  bad  weather  at  Douglas 
Harbor.  “  And  a  terrible  wonderful  sight  of  corn,  plenty 
for  all,  plenty,  plenty,”  was  the  word  that  went  round.  In 
three  hours’  time  hundreds  of  men  and  women  trooped 
down  to  the  quay  with  money  to  buy.  To  all  comers  the 
master  shook  his  head,  and  refused  to  sell. 

“  Sell,  man — sell,  sell,”  they  cried. 

“  I  can’t  sell.  The  cargo  is  not  mine.  I’m  a  poor  man 
myself,”  said  the  master. 

“  Well,  and  what’s  that  it’s  savin’,  *  WTen  one  poor  man 
helps  another  poor  man  God  laughs.’  ” 

The  Bishop  came  to  the  ship’s  side,  and  tried  to  treat 
for  the  cargo. 

“  I’ve  given  bond  to  land  it  all  at  Whitehaven,”  said  the 
master. 

Then  the  people’s  faces  grew  black,  and  deep  oaths  rose 
to  their  lips,  and  they  turned  and  looked  into  each  other’s 
eyes  in  their  impotent  rage.  “  The  hunger  is  on  us — we 
can’t  starve — let  every  herring  hang  by  its  own  gill — let’s 
board  her,”  they  muttered  among  themselves. 

And  the  Bishop  heard  their  threats.  “  My  people,”  he 
said,  “  what  will  become  of  this  poor  island  unless  God 
averts  his  awful  judgments,  only  God  himself  can  know; 
but  this  good  man  has  given  his  bond,  and  let  us  not  bring 
on  our  heads  God’s  further  displeasure.” 

There  was  a  murmur  of  discontent,  and  then  one  long 
sigh  of  patient  endurance,  and  then  the  Bishop  lifted  his 
hands,  and  down  on  their  knees  on  the  quay  the  people 
with  famished  faces  fell  around  the  tall,  drooping  figure  of 
the  man  of  God,  and  from  patched  throats,  and  hearts 
wellnigh  as  dry,  sent  up  a  great  cry  to  heaven  to  grant 
them  succor  lest  they  should  die. 

About  a  week  afterward  another  ship  put  in  by  contrary 
winds  at  Castletown.  It  had  a  cargo  of  Welsh  oats  bound 
to  Dumfries,  on  the  order  of  the  Provost.  The  contrary 
Winds  continued,  and  the  corn  began  to  heat  and  spoil. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


4» 

The  hungry  populace,  enraged  by  famine,  called  on  the 
master  to  sell.  He  was  powerless.  Then  the  Bishop 
walked  over  his  “  Pyrenees,”  and  saw  that- the  food  foi 
which  his  people  hungered  was  perishing  before  their  eyes. 
When  the  master  said  “  No  ”  to  him,  as  to  others,  he  re¬ 
membered  how  in  old  time  David,  being  an  hungered^did 
that  which  was  not  lawful  in  eating  of  the  showbread,  and 
straightway  he  went  up  to  Castle  Rushen,  got  a  company 
of  musketeers,  returned  with  them  to  the  ship’s  side, 
boarded  the  ship,  put  the  master  and  crew  in  irons,  and 
took  possession  of  the  corn. 

What  wild  joy  among  the  people  !  What  shouts  were 
heard  ;  what  tears  rolled  down  the  stony  cheeks  of  stern 

men  !  ,  , 

“  Patience  !  ”  cried  the  Bishop.  “  Bring  the  market 

weights  and  scales.” 

The  scales  and  weights  were  brought  down  to  the  quay; 
and  every  bushel  of  the  cargo  was  exactly  weighed,,  and 
paid  for  at  the  prime  price  according  to  the  master  s  re- 
port.  Then  the  master  and  crew  were  liberated,  and  the 
Bishop  paid  the  ship's  freight  out  of  his  own  purse.  When 
he  passed  through  the  market-place  on  his  way  back  to 
the  Bishop’s  Court  the  people  followed  with  eyes  that  were 
almost  too  dim  to  see,  and  they  blessed  him  in  cheers  that 

were  sobs.  #  . 

And  then  God  remembered  his  people,  and  their  trou*> 
bles  passed  away.  With  the  opening  spring  the  mack¬ 
erel  nets  came  back  to  the  boats  in  shining  silver  masses, 
and  peace  and  plenty  came  again  to  the  hearth  of  the 

poorest.  ,  .  . 

The  Manxman  knew  his  Bishop  now  ;  he  knew  him  for 
the  strongest  soul  in  the  dark  hour,  the  serenest  saint  ir 
the  hour  of  light  and  peace.  That  hoary  old  dog,  Bill] 
the  Gawk,  took  his  knife  and  scratched  ‘  B.M.,  and  th< 
year  of  the  Lord  on  the  inside  of  his  cupboard  door  to  re 
cord  the  advent  of  Bishop  Mylrea. 

A  mason  from  Ireland,  a  Catholic  named  Patrick  Looney 
was  that  day  at  work  building  the  square  tower  of  th( 
church  of  the  market-place,  and  when  he  saw  the  Bishoj 
pass  under  him  he  went  down  on  his  knees  on  the  scanou 
and  dropped  his  head  for  the  good  man  s  blessing. 

A  little  girl  of  seven,  with  sunny  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
stood  by  at  that  moment,  and  for  love  of  the  child’s  happl 
face  the  Bishop  touched  her  head  and  said,  “  God  bles 
you,  my  sweet  child.” 


THE  DEEMSTER.  ft 

The  little  one  lifted  her  innocent  eyes  to  his  eyes,  and 
answered  with  a  courtesy,  “  And  God  bless  you,  too,  sir.” 

“Thank  you,  child,  thank  you,” said  the  Bishop.  “  I  do 
not  doubt  that  your  blessing  will  be  as  good  as  mine.” 

Such  was  Gilcrist  Mylrea,  Bishop  of  Man.  He  needed 
all  his  strength  and  all  his  tenderness  for  the  trials  that 
were  to  come. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  COSEY  NEST  AT  BISHOP’S  COURT. 

The  children  of  the  Deemster  and  Bishop  spent  the  first 
five  years  as  one  little  brood  in  the  cosey  nest  at  Bishop’s 
Court.  The  arrangement  was  agreeable  to  both  brothers 
while  it  lasted.  It  left  Ballamona  a  silent  place,  but  the 
master  recked  little  of  that.  The  Deemster  kept  no  com¬ 
pany,  or  next  to  none.  He  dismissed  all  his  domestics  ex¬ 
cept  one,  and  Hommy-beg,  who  had  been  gardener  hith¬ 
erto,  became  groom  as  well.  The  new  Ballamona  began 
to  gather  a  musty  odor,  and  the  old  Ballamona  took  the 
moss  on  its  wall  and  the  lichen  on  its  roof.  The  Deemster 
rose  early  and  went  late  to  bed.  Much  of  the  day  was 
spent  in  the  saddle  passing  from  town  to  town  of  his  north¬ 
ern  circuit,  for  he  held  a  court  twice  weekly  at  Ramsey 
and  Peeltown.  Toward  nightfall  he  was  usually  back  at 
his  house,  sitting  alone  by  the  fireplace,  whether,  as  in  the 
long  nights  of  winter,  a  peat  fire  burned  there,  or,  as  in 
the  summer  evenings,  the  hearth  was  empty.  Hardly  a 
sound  broke  the  dead  quiet  of  the  solitary  place,  save  when 
some  litigious  farmer  who  had  caught  his  neighbor  in  the 
act  of  trespass  brought  him,  there  and  then,  for  judgment, 
to  the  Deemster’s  house  by  that  most  summary  kind  of 
summons,  the  force  of  superior  muscles.  On  such  occa¬ 
sions  the  plaintiff  and  defendant,  with  their  noisy  witnesses., 
would  troop  into  the  hall  with  the  yaps  and  snaps  of  a 
pack  of  dogs,  and  Thorkell  would  twist  in  his  chair  and 
fine  one  of  them,  or  perhaps  both,  and  pocket  their  money, 
and  then  drive  them  all  away  dissatisfied,  to  settle  their  dis¬ 
pute  by  other  means  in  the  darkness  of  the  road  outside. 

Meantime,  Bishop’s  Court  was  musical  with  children’s 
Voices,  and  with  the  patter  of  tiny  feet  that  ferreted  out 
every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  old  place.  There  was  Ewaiv 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


4£ 

the  Deemster’s  son,  a  slight,  sensitive  boy,  who  listened  to 
you  with  his  head  aslant,  and  with  absent  looks.  There 
was  wee  Mona,  Ewan’s  meek  sister,  with  the  big  eyes  and 
the  quiet  ways,  who  liked  to  be  fondled,  and  would  cry 
sometimes  when  no  one  knew  why.  And  then  there  was 
Daniel — Danny — Dan,  the  Bishop’s  boy,  a  braw  little  rogue, 
with  a  slice  of  the  man  in  him,  as  broad  as  he  was  long, 
with  tousled  fair  head  and  face  usually  smudged,  laugh- 
ing  a  good  deal  and  not  crying  overmuch,  loving  a  good 
tug  or  a  delightful  bit  of  a  fight,  and  always  feeling 
high  disdain  at  being  kissed.  And  the  Bishop,  God  bless 
him  !  was  father  and  mother  both  to  the  motherless  brood, 
though  Kerry  QuayJe  was  kept  as  nurse.  He  would  tell  a 
story,  or  perhaps  sing  one,  while  Mona  sat  on  his  knee 
with  her  pretty  head  resting  on  his  breast,  and  Ewan  held 
on  to  his  chair  with  his  shy  head  hanging  on  his  own 
shoulder,  and  his  eyes  looking  out  at  the  window,  listening 
intently  in  his  queer  little  absent  way.  And  when  Dan, 
in  lordly  contempt  of  such  doings,  would  break  in  on  song 
or  story,  and  tear  his  way  up  the  back  of  the  chair  to  the 
back  of  the  Bishop,  Mona  would  be  set  on  her  feet,  and  the 
biggest  baby  of  the  four  there  present  wTould  slide  down 
on  to  his  hands  and  knees  and  creep  along  the  floor  with 
the  great  little  man  astride  him,  and  whinny  like  a  horse, 
or  perhaps  bark  like  a  dog,  and  pretend  to  leap  the  four- 
bar  gate  of  the  baby’s  chair  tumbled  down  on  its  side. 
And  when  Dan  would  slide  from  his  saddle,  and  the  rest¬ 
less  horseman  would  turn  coachman  and  tug  the  mane  of 
his  steed,  and  all  the  Bishop’s  longhair  would  tumble  over 
his  face,  what  shrieks  of  laughter,  what  rolling  on  the 
ground  and  tossing  up  of  bare  legs  !  And  then  when  supper¬ 
time  came,  and  the  porridge  would  be  brought  in,  and  little 
Mona  would  begin  to  whimper  because  she  had  to  eat  it, 
and  Ewan  to  fret  because  it  was  barley  porridge  and  not 
oaten  cake,  and  Dan  to  devour  his  share  with  silent  in-  ; 
dustry,  and  then  bellow  for  more  than  was  good  for  him, 
what  schemes  the  good  Bishop  resorted  to,  what  promises 
he  made,  what  crafty  tricks  he  learned,  what  an  artful  old 
pate  his  simple  head  suddenly  became  !  And  then,  when 
Kerry  came  with  the  tub  and  the  towels,  and  three  little 
naked  bodies  had  to  be  bathed,  and  the  Bishop  stole  away  to 
his  unfinished  sermon,  and  little  Mona’s  wet  hands  clung  to 
Kerry’s  dress,  and  Ewan,  standing  bolt-upright  in  the  three 
inches  of  water,  blubbered  while  he  rubbed  the  sponge  over 
an  inch  and  a  half  of  one  cheek,  and  Dan  sat  on  htl 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


43 


haunches  in  the  bottom  of  the  tub  splashing  the  water  on 
every  side,  and  shrieking  at  every  splash  ;  then  the  fearful 
commotion  would  bring  the  Bishop  back  from  the  dusky 
room  up-stairs,  where  the  shaded  lamp  burned  on  a  table 
that  was  littered  with  papers.  And  at  last,  when  the  day's 
big  battle  was  done,  and  night's  bigger  battle  began,  and 
three  night-dresses  were  popped  over  three  wary  heads 
that  dodged  them  when  they  could,  the  Bishop  would  carry 
three  sleepless,  squealing  piggies  to  bed — Mona  at  his 
breast  because  she  was  little,  Ewan  on  his  back  because  he 
Was  big,  and  Dan  across  his  shoulders  because  he  could 
not  get  to  any  loftier  perch.  Presently  there  would  be 
three  little  pairs  of  knees  by  the  crib-side,  and  then  three 
little  flaxen  polls  on  the  pillow,  tumbling  and  tossing,  and 
with  the  great  dark  head  of  the  Bishop  shaking  gravely  at 
them  from  over  the  counterpane,  and  then  a  hush  broken 
by  a  question  lisped  drowsily,  or  a  baby-rhyme  that  ran  a 
line  or  two  and  stopped,  and  at  length  the  long  deep  quiet 
and  the  silence  of  sleep,  and  the  Bishop  going  off  on  tip¬ 
toe  to  the  dusky  room  with  the  shaded  lamp,  and  to-mor¬ 
row's  sermon  lying  half  written  beneath  it. 

And  so  five  tearing,  romping  years  went  by,  and  though 
they  were  the  years  of  the  famine  and  the  pestilence,  and 
of  many  another  dark  cloud  that  hung  blackest  over 
Bishop's  Court,  a  world  of  happiness  was  crowded  into 
them.  Then  when  Ewan  was  six  years  old,  and  Danny 
and  Mona  were  five,  and  the  boys  were  buttoning  their 
own  corduroys,  the  Deemster  came  over  from  Ballamona 
and  broke  up  the  little  nest  of  humming-birds. 

“Gilcrist,"  said  Thorkell,  “you  are  ruining  the  chil¬ 
dren,  and  I  must  take  my  own  awTay  from  you." 

The  Bishop's  grave  face  grew  suddenly  white,  and  when, 
after  a  pause,  he  said,  “No,  no,  Thorkell,  you  don’t  mean 
that,"  there  was  a  tremor  in  his  deep  voice. 

“I  do  mean  it,"  said  the  Deemster.  “  Let  a  father  treat 
his  children  as  the  world  will  treat  them  when  they  have 
nothing  but  the  world  for  their  father — that's  my  maxim, 
and  I’ll  act  up  to  it  with  my  own." 

“That's  hard  treatment,  Thorkell,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
his  eyes  began  to  fill. 

“Spare  the  rod,  spoil  the  child,"  said  Thorkell. 

“Maybe  you're  right,"  said  the  Bishop  in  a  quivering* 
voice,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

But  the  Deemster  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Ewan  and 

Mona  were  removed  to  Ballamona.  There  they  had  no 


44 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


nurse,  and  shifted  a  good  deal  for  themselves.  They  ate 
oaten  cake  and  barley  porridge  three  times  a  day,  and 
that  was  to  build  up  their  bone  and  brain  ;  they  were 
bathed  in  cold  water  summer  and  winter,  and  that  was  to 
make  them  hardy  ;  they  wore  frocks  with  low  necks,  and 
that  was  to  strengthen  their  lungs  ;  they  went  to  bed 
without  a  light  and  fell  asleep  while  trembling  in  each 
other  s  arms,  and  that  was  to  make  them  brave  and  pre¬ 
vent  them  from  becoming  superstitious. 

If  the  spirit  and  health  of  the  little  ones  did  not  sink 
under  their  Spartan  training  it  was  because  Nature  was 
stronger  than  custom,  and  because  God  is  very  good  to 
the  bruised  hearts  of  children.  They  did  not  laugh  too 
loud  when  the  Deemster  was  near,  and  they  were  never 
seen  to  pull  his  vest,  or  to  tug  him  by  his  hair,  or  to  ride 
across  his  back,  which  was  never  known  to  stoop  low  for 
their  little  legs  to  mount.  The  house  was  not  much 
noisier,  or  dirtier,  or  less  orderly  for  their  presence  ;  they 
did  not  fill  it  with  their  voices,  or  tumble  it  out  of  its  pro¬ 
priety  with  their  busy  fingers,  as  with  Cousin  Danny’s 
powerful  assistance  they  had  filled  and  tumbled  Bishop’s 
Court,  until  every  room  in  the  comfortable  old  place 
seemed  to  say  to  you  with  a  wink  and  a  nod,  “  A  child 
lives  here  ;  this  is  his  own  home,  and  he  is  master  of  the 
whole  house.”  But  when  they  stole  away  to  their  own 
little  room  at  the  back,  where  no  fire  burned  lest  they 
should  grow  “  nesh,”  not  all  the  masks  that  were  ever 
made  to  make  life  look  like  a  sorry  tragedy  could  have 
hidden  the  joy  that  was  always  wanting  to  break  out  on 
their  little  faces.  There  they  would  romp  and  laugh  and  j 
crow  and  sing,  and  Ewan  would  play  at  preaching,  with  the 
back  of  a  chair  for  a  pulpit,  and  his  pinafore  for  surplice,  j 
and  Mona  of  the  big  eyes  sitting  on  the  floor  below  for  choir 
and  congregation.  And  if  in  the  middle  of  their  play  it 
happened  that  all  at  once  they  remembered  Danny,  then 
Ewan’s  head  would  fall  aside,  and  his  look  in  an  instant 
be  far  away,  and  Mona’s  lower  lip  would  hang  suddenly,  j 
and  the  sunshine  would  straightway  die  out  of  her  laugh-  i 
ing  face. 

When  the  Bishop  lost  the  Deemster’s  children  he  found  ; 
a  great  void  in  his  heart ;  but  little  Danny  troubled  his 
big  head  not  at  all  about  the  change  that  had  taken  place,  j 
He  laughed  just  as  loud,  and  never  cried  at  all,  and  when  1 
he  awoke  in  the  morning  and  his  cousins  were  not  there, 
their  place  forthwith  knew  them  no  more*  In  a  vague 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


45 


way  he  missed  his  playmates,  but  that  only  meant  that  the 
Bishop  had  to  be  his  playmate  even  more  than  before,  and 
the  Bishop  was  nothing  loath.  Away  they  ran  through 
the  copse  together,  these  boon  companions,  and  if  tL& 
Bishop  hid  behind  a  tree,  of  course  Danny  found  him,  and 
if  it  was  Danny  that  hid,  of  course  the  Bishop  seaiched 
high  and  low,  and  never  once  heard  the  merry  titter  that 
came  from  behind  the  gorse  bush  that  was  arm  s-length 
away,  until,  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  Danny  leaped  out  on 
him  like  an  avalanche.  They  talked  one  jargon,  too,  for 
Danny's  industrious  tongue  could  not  say  its  w,  and  it 
made  an  s  of  its/.  “  How  many  'heels  has  your  cart  got, 
carter  ? ”  “  Sour."  “  Very  srosty  to-day,  master."  “  Well, 
then,  come  in  to  the  sire." 

In  a  strange  and  unconscious  way  the  Bishop  developed 
a  sort  of  physical  affinity  with  this  sworn  ally.  When  no 
sound  seemed  to  break  the  silence  he  could  hear  the  little 
man’s  cry  through  three  stout  stone  walls  and  up  two 
flights  of  stairs.  If  the  child  fell  and  hurt  himself  half  a 
mile  from  the  house,  the  Bishop  at  home  felt  as  if  he  had 
himself  dropped  on  a  sharp  stone  and  cut  his  knee.  If  he: 
clambered  to  the  top  of  a  high  wall  that  was  out  of  sight, 
the  Bishop  in  his  study  felt  dizzy. 

But  extraordinary  as  was  this  affinity  of  the  Bishop  and 
his  boy,  the  intercourse  that  subsisted  between  Danny 
and  his  nurse  was  yet  more  marvellous.  The  Bishop  had 
merely  a  prescience  of  disaster  threatening  his  darling  ; 
but  Kerry  seemed,  by  an  exercise  of  some  nameless  fac¬ 
ulty,  to  know  the  child's  whereabouts  at  any  moment  of 
day  or  night.  Half  blind  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  little 
Ewan,  Kerry  Quayle  had  grown  stone-blind  since,  and 
this  extraordinary  power  was  in  truth  her  second  sight.  It 
was  confined  to  Danny,  her  nursling,  but  over  his  move¬ 
ments  it  was  an  absolute  gift. 

“  Och,"  she  cried,  leaping  up  from  the  spinning-wheel, 
“the  wee  craythur’s  into  the  chapel,  as  the  sayin’  is." 

“  Impossible  !  "  the  Bishop  answered  ;  “  I’ve  only  this 
moment  locked  the  door." 

But  Kerry  and  the  Bishop  went  to  the  chapel  to  search 
for  him,  and  found  the  fugitive,  who  had  clambered  in 
through  an  open  window,  lighting  the  candle  at  the  read¬ 
ing-desk,  after  washing  his  black  hands  in  the  font. 

“Aw,  now,"  said  Kerry,  lifting  up  her  hands  and  her 
blind  face  in  horror,  “what’s  that  it’s  saying,  ‘  The  little 
hemlock  is  sister  to  the  big  hemlock  which  was  as 


46 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


much  as  to  say  that  the  small  sin  was  akin  to  the  great  sin, 
and  that  little  Danny,  who  had  been  caught  in  an  act  of 
sacrilege,  would  one  day  be  guilty  of  worse. 

“Nonsense,  woman — nonsense  ;  a  child  is  but  a  child/' 
said  the  Bishop,  leading  the  delinquent  away. 

That  day — it  was  Thursday  of  Whitsun  week — Convoca¬ 
tion  was  to  be  held  at  Bishop's  Court,  and  the  clergy  had 
already  begun  to  gather  in  the  library  that  looked  west 
toward  the  sea.  To  keep  Danny  out  of  further  mischief 
the  Bishop  led  him  to  his  own  room,  and  there  he  poured 
water  into  a  bowl  and  proceeded  to  bathe  his  eyes,  which 
had  latterly  shown  signs  of  weakness.  To  do  this  he  had 
need  to  remove  his  spectacles,  and  he  set  them  down  on 
the  table  by  his  hand.  Danny  watched  these  proceedings 
with  a  roguish  look,  and  when  the  Bishop’s  face  was  in  the 
bowl  he  whipped  up  the  spectacles  and  pushed  them  down 
his  neck  between  his  frock  and  his  breast.  With  a  whirr 
and  a  puff  the  Bishop  shook  the  water  from  his  face  and 
dried  it,  and  wThen  the  lash  comb  had  tossed  back  his  long 
hair  he  stretched  his  hand  out  for  his  spectacles.  He 
could  not  feel  them,  and  when  he  looked  he  could  not  see 
them,  and  then  he  called  on  Danny  to  search  for  them,  and 
straightway  the  rogue  was  on  hands  and  knees  hunting  in 
every  possible  and  impossible  place.  But  Danny  could 
not  find  them — not  he.  Convocation  was  wraiting  for  its 
chief,  but  the  spectacles  could  not  be  found,  and  the 
Bishop,  for  all  bookish  services,  was  blinder  than  a  bat 
without  them.  High  and  low,  up  and  down,  on  every  table, 
under  every  paper,  into  every  pocket,  and  still  no  spec¬ 
tacles.  At  length  the  Bishop  paused  and  looked  steadily 
into  the  eyes  of  the  little  man  sitting  on  his  haunches  and 
tittering  audibly. 

“  Where  are  the  glasses  ?  ” 

Danny  laughed  very  loud. 

“  Where  are  my  glasses,  Danny  veg  ?” 

Danny  veg  laughed  still  louder. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  made  of  an  answer  like  that,  so 
down  on  his  knees  went  the  Bishop  again  to  see  if  the 
rogue  had  hidden  the  spectacles  beneath  the  hearth-rug,  or 
under  the  seat  of  the  settle,  or  inside  the  shaving-pot  on 
the  hearth.  And  all  the  time  Danny,  with  his  hands 
clasped  under  his  haunches,  hopped  about  the  room  like  a 
frog  with  great  starry  eyes,  and  crowed  and  laughed  till 
his  face  grew  scarlet  and  the  tears  trickled  down  bis 
cheeks. 


THE  DEEMSIeR. 


47 


Blind  Kerry  came  to  say  that  the  gentlemen  wanted  to 
know  when  the  Bishop  would  be  with  them,  as  the  saying 
was  ;  and  two  minutes  afterward  the  Bishop  strode  into 
the  library  through  a  line  of  his  clergy,  who  rose  as  he  en¬ 
tered,  and  bowed  to  him  in  silence  when  his  tall  figure  bent 
slightly  to  each  of  them  in  turn. 

“  Your  pardon,  gentlemen,  for  this  delay,”  he  said,  grave¬ 
ly,  and  then  he  settled  himself  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Hardly  had  the  clergy  taken  their  seats  when  the  door 
of  the  room  was  dashed  open  with  a  lordly  bang,  and  into 
the  *nuggy  room,  made  darker  still  by  twenty  long  black 
coa/  i,  there  shot  a  gleam  of  laughing  sunshine — Danny 
him  elf,  at  a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump,  with  a  pair  of  specta¬ 
cles  perched  insecurely  on  the  sliding  bridge  of  his  diminu¬ 
tive  nose. 

The  Archdeacon  was  there  that  day,  and  when  the  in¬ 
truder  had  been  evicted  by  blind  Kerry,  who  came  in  hot 
pursuit  of  him,  he  shook  his  head  and  looked  as  solemn 
and  as  wise  as  his  little  russet  face  would  admit,  and  said  : 

“  Ah,  my  Lord,  you’ll  kill  that  child  with  kindness.  May 
you  never  heap  up  for  yourself  a  bad  harvest!” 

The  Bishop  made  no  answer,  but  breathed  on  the  re¬ 
stored  spectacles,  and  rubbed  them  with  his  red  silk  hand¬ 
kerchief. 

“  I  hold  with  the  maxim  of  my  son-in-law  the  Deemster,” 
the  Archdeacon  continued :  “  let  a  child  be  dealt  with  in 
his  father’s  house  as  the  world  hereafter  will  deal  with 
him.” 

“Nay,  nay,  but  more  gently,”  said  the  Bishop.  “If  he 
is  a  good  man,  ten  to  one  the  world  will  whip  him — let  him 
remember  his  father’s  house  as  a  place  of  love.” 

*Aft,  my  Lord,”  said  the  Archdeacon,  “  but  what  of  the 
/nj  unction  against  the  neglect  of  the  rod  ?” 

The  Bishop  bent  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

Once  in  a  way  during  these  early  years  the  Bishop  took 
Danny  across  to  Ballamona,  and  then  the  two  little  exiles 
in  their  father’s  house,  banished  from  the  place  of  love, 
would  rush  into  the  Bishop's  arms,  Mona  at  his  chin,  Ewan 
with  hands  clasped  about  his  leg  and  flaxen  head  against 
the  great  seals  that  hung  from  his  fob-pocket.  But  as  for 
Danny  and  his  cousins,  and  the  cousins  and  Danny,  they 
usually  stood  a  while  and  inspected  one  another  with  that 
solemnity  and  aloofness  which  is  one  of  the  phenomena  of 
child  manners,  and  then,  when  the  reserve  of  the  three 
haid  little  faces  had  been  softened  by  a  smile,  they  would 


48 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


forthwith  rush  at  one  another  with  mighty  clinched  fists 
and  pitch  into  one  another  for  five  minutes  together,  amid 
a  chorus  of  squeals.  In  this  form  of  salutation  Danny  was 
never  known  to  fail,  and  as  he  was  too  much  of  a  man  to 
limit  his  greeting  to  Ewan,  lie  always  pitched  into  Mona 
with  the  same  masculine  impartiality. 

But  the  time  came  again  when  the  salutation  was  un¬ 
necessary,  for  they  were  sent  to  school  together,  and  they 
saw  one  another  daily.  There  was  only  one  school  to  which 
they  could  be  sent,  and  that  was  the  parish  school,  the 
same  that  was  taught  by  James  Quirk,  who  “could  not  di¬ 
vide  his  syllables,”  according  to  the  account  of  Jabez 
Gawne,  the  tailor. 

The  parishioners  had  built  their  new  school-house  near 
the  church,  and  it  lay  about  midway  between  Bishop’s  Court 
and  Ballamona.  It  was  also  about  half-way  down  the  road 
that  led  to  the  sea,  and  that  was  a  proximity  of  never- 
ending  delight.  After  school,  in  the  long  summer  even¬ 
ings,  the  scholars  would  troop  down  to  the  shore  in  one 
tumultuous  company,  the  son  of  the  Bishop  with  the  son 
of  the  cobbler,  the  Deemster’s  little  girl  with  the  big  girl 
of  Jabez,  who  sent  his  child  on  charity.  Ragged  and  well- 
clad,  clean  and  dirty,  and  the  biggest  lad  “rigging”  the 
smallest,  and  not  caring  a  ha’porth  if  his  name  was  the 
name  of  the  Deemster  or  the  name  of  Billy  the  Gawk. 
Hand-in-hand,  Danny  and  Ewan,  with  Mona  between, 
would  skip  and  caper  along  the  sands  down  to  where  the 
gray  rocks  of  the  Head  jutted  out  into  the  sea  and 
bounded  the  universe  ;  Mona  prattling  and  singing,  shak¬ 
ing  out  her  wavy  hair  to  the  wind,  dragging  Danny  aside 
to  look  at  a  seaweed,  and  pulling  Ewan  to  look  at  a  shell, 
tripping  down  to  the  water’s  edge,  until  the  big  bearded 
waves  touched  her  boots,  and  then  back  once  more  with 
a  half-frightened,  half-affected,  laughter-loaded  scream. 
Then  the  boys  would  strip  and  bathe,  and  Mona,  being 
only  a  woman,  would  mind  the  men’s  clothes,  or  they 
would  shout  all  together  at  the  gulls,  and  Danny  would 
mock  Mother  Cary’s  chicken  and  catcli  the  doleful  cry  of 
the  cormorant,  and  pelt  with  pebbles  the  long-necked  bird 
as  it  sat  on  the  rocks ;  or  he  would  clamber  up  over  the 
slippery  seaweed,  across  the  sharp  slate  ribs  to  where  the 
sea-pinks  grew  in  the  corries  and  the  sea-duck  laid  her 
eggs ,  and  sing  out  from  some  dizzy  height  to  where  Ewan 
held  his  breath  below  and  Mona  stood  crying  and  trem¬ 
bling  on  the  sands. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


4§ 

What  times  for  Danny  !  How  the  lad  seemed  to  swell 
find  grow  every  day  of  life !  Before  he  was  ten  he  had 
outgrown  Ewan  by  half  an  inch,  and  gone  through  a 
stand-up  fight  with  every  ruffian  under  twelve.  Then, 
down  among  the  fishermen  on  the  beach,  what  sport  ! 
Knocking  about  among  the  boats,  pulling  at  the  oars  like 
mad,  or  tugging  at  the  sheets,  baling  out  and  pushing  off, 
and  riding  away  over  the  white  breakers,  and  shouting  for 
pure  devilment  above  the  plash  of  the  water. 

“Aw,  man,  it’s  all  for  the  happy  the  lad  feels  inside," 
said  Billy  Quilleash. 

Danny  and  Billy  Quilleash  were  sworn  chums,  and  the 
little  sand-boy  learned  all  the  old  salt’s  racy  sayings,  and 
went  home  to  Bishop’s  Court  and  fired  them  off  at  his 
father. 

“  There’s  a  storm  coming,”  the  Bishop  said  one  day, 
looking  up  at  the  scudding  clouds.  “  Ay,  Ay,”  said  Danny, 
with  his  small  eye  askew,  “  the  long  cat’s  tail  was  going 
off  at  a  slant  a  while  ago,  and  now  the  round  thick  skate 
yonder  is  hanging  mortal  low.”  “  The  wind  is  rising,”  the 
Bishop  said  on  another  occasion.  “Ay,  Davy’s  putting 
on  the  coppers  for  the  parson,”  said  the  young  heretic. 

School,  too,  was  only  another  playground  to  Danny,  a 
little  less  tumultuous  but  no  less  delightful  than  the  shore. 
The  school-master  had  grown  very  deaf  since  the  days 
when  the  Bishop  pronounced  him  qualified  to  teach  an 
English  school.  This  deafness  he  did  his  best  to  conceal, 
for  he  had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  dissatisfaction  of  the 
parishioners,  and  he  had  a  natural  unwillingness  to  lose 
his  bread  and  butter.  But  his  scholars  were  not  easily 
hoodwinked,  and  Danny,  the  daring  young  dog,  would 
play  on  the  master’s  infirmity.  “  Spell  me  the  word  arith¬ 
metic,”  the  school-master  might  ask  when  the  boys  were 
ranged  about  his  desk  in  class.  And  Danny  would  an¬ 
swer  with  a  face  of  tragic  solemnity,  “  Twice  one  are  two, 
twice  two  are  four.”  “Very  good,”  the  school-master 
would  reply.  “  And  now,  sir,  repeat  me  your  multiplica- 
tion  table — twice  times.”  And  then,  while  the  master 
held  his  head  aside,  as  if  in  the  act  of  intent  listening,  and 
the  other  boys  twisted  their  faces  to  hide  their  grins  or 
sniggered  openly,  Danny,  still  with  the  face  of  a  judge, 
would  repeat  a  paraphrase  of  the  familiar  little  hymn, 
“Jemmy  was  a  Welshman,  Jemmy  was  a  thief,  Jem¬ 
my - ”  “  Don’t  speak  so  fast,  sir — say  your  figures  more 

plainly,"  the  school-master  would  interrupt.  And  Dan*/ 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


$*> 

would  begin  again  with  a  more  explicit  enunciation, 

“Jemmy  Quirk  was  a  Welshman,  Jemmy - ”  Then  the 

sniggers  and  the  snorts  would  rise  to  a  tumult.  And  down 
would  come  the  master’s  cane  on  the  desk.  “  Silence, 
boys,  and  let  the  boy  say  his  table.  Some  of  you  big  lads 
might  take  example  by  him,  and  be  none  the  worse.  Go 
on,  Daniel — you  are  quite  right  so  far — twice  five  are  ten, 
twice  six - ” 

There  was  one  lad  in  the  school  who  could  not  see  the 
humor  of  the  situation,  a  dim,  quiet  boy,  only  a  little  older 
than  Danny,  but  a  long  way  ahead  of  him  in  learning,  and 
one  evening  this  solemn  youngster  hung  behind  when 
school  was  breaking  up,  and  blurted  out  the  mischief  to 
the  school-master.  He  did  not  get  the  reception  he  ex¬ 
pected,  for,  in  dire  wrath  at  the  imputation  that  he  was 
deaf,  Mr.  Quirk  birched  the  informant  soundly.  Nor  did 
the  reward  of  his  treachery  end  with  birching.  It  did  not 
take  half  an  hour  for  the  report  of  both  birching  and 
treachery  to  travel  by  that  swiftest  of  telephones,  the 
school-boy  tongue,  through  that  widest  of  kingdoms,  the 
world  of  school,  and  the  same  evening,  while  Mona,  on 
her  way  home,  was  gathering  the  bluebells  that  grew  on 
the  lea  of  the  yellow-tipped  gorse,  and  Ewan  was  chasing 
the  humming-bee  through  the  hot  air  that  was  thick  with 
midges,  Danny,  with  face  as  white  as  a  haddock,  was 
striding  alone  by  a  long  circuit  across  the  moor,  to  where 
a  cottage  stood  by  the  path  across  the  Head.  There  he 
bounded  in  at  the  porch,  caught  a  boy  by  the  coat,  dragged 
him  into  the  road,  pummelled  him  with  silent  vigor,  while 
the  lad  bellowed  and  struggled  to  escape. 

In  another  instant,  an  old  woman  hobbled  out  of  the 
cottage  on  a  stick,  and  with  that  weapon  she  made  for 
Danny,  and  gave  him  sundry  hard  raps  on  the  back  and 
head. 

“  Och,  the  craythur,”  she  cried,  “  get  off  with  ye — the 
damon — extraordinary — would  the  Lord  think  it  now — 
it’s  in  the  breed  of  ye— get  off,  or  I’ll  break  every  bone  in 
your  skim” 

Danny  paid  as  little  heed  to  the  old  woman’s  blows  as 
to  her  threats,  and  was  up  with  his  fist  for  the  twentieth 
time  to  come  down  on  the  craven  traitor  who  bellowed  in 
his  grip,  when  all  at  once  a  horse’s  feet  were  tramping 
about  their  limbs  where  they  struggled  in  the  road,  and  a 
stern  voice  from  over  their  heads  shouted,  “  Stop,  stop,  of 
wust  I  bring  the  whip  across  your  flanks  ?  ” 


THE  DEEMSTER.  51 

It  was  the  Deemster.  Danny  fell  aside  on  the  right  of 
the  horse,  and  the  old  woman  and  the  boy  on  the  left. 

“What  does  this  mean?”  asked  tf  je  Deemster,  turning 
to  his  nephew ,  but  Danny  stood  there  panting,  his  eyes 
like  fire,  his  fists  clinched,  his  knuckles  standing  out  like 
ribs  of  steel,  and  he  made  no  answer. 

“  Who  is  this  blubbering  coward  ?  ”  asked  the  Deemster, 
pointing  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  to  the  boy  half 
hidden  by  the  old  woman’s  dress. 

“Coward,  is  it?”  said  the  woman.  “  Coward,  you  say  ?” 

“Who  is  the  brat,  Mrs.  Kerruish  ?”  said  the  Deemster, 
6harply. 

At  that  Mrs.  Kerruish,  for  it  was  she,  pulled  the  boy 
from  behind  her,  plucked  off  his  hat,  ran  her  wrinkled 
hand  over  his  forehead  to  his  hair,  and  held  up  his  face, 
and  said : 

“  Look  at  him,  Deemster— look  at  him.  You  don’t  come 
this  way  often,  but  look  at  him  while  you’re  here.  Did 
you  ever  see  his  picture  before  ?  Never  ?  Never  see  a 
face  like  that?  No?  Not  when  you  look  in  the  glass, 
Deemster  ?  ” 

“  Get  into  the  house,  woman,”  said  the  Deemster,  in  a 
low,  thick  tone,  and  so  saying,  he  put  the  spurs  to  his 
horse. 

“  As  for  this  young  demon  here,”  said  the  old  woman, 
pushing  the  boy  back  and  pointing  with  her  stick  at 
Danny,  “he’ll  have  his  heel  on  your  neck  yet,  Deemster— 
and  remember  the  word  I’m  saying.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DANNY  THE  MADCAP. 

Now,  Danny  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  Deemster, 
•nd  nothing  that  he  could  do  was  amiss.  The  spice  of  mis¬ 
chief  in  the  lad  made  him  the  darling  of  the  Deemster’s 
heart.  His  own  son  disappointed  the  Deemster.  He 
seemed  to  have  no  joy  in  him.  Ewan  was  quiet,  and  his 
father  thought  him  a  milksop.  There  was  more  than  one 
sense  in  which  the  Deemster  was  an  indifferent  judge  of 
his  species,  but  he  found  no  difficulty  in  comprehending 
the  idiosyncrasy  of  his  brother’s  son.  Over  the  pathetic 
story  of  Danny’s  maddest  prank,  or  the  last  mournful  ac- 

UBRARY  ' - - — 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  DEEMSTER, , 


& 

count  of  his  daring  devilry,  the  Deemster  would  chuckle 
and  shake,  and  roll  his  head  between  his  shoulders,  then 
give  the  boy  a  slap  on  his  hindmost  part,  accompanied  by 
a  lusty  name,  and  finally  rummage  for  something  in  his 
pocket,  and  smuggle  that  something  into  the  young  ras¬ 
cal’s  palm. 

Danny  would  be  about  fifteen  years  of  age — a  lump  of  a 
jad,  and  therefore  out  of  the  leading-strings  of  his  nurse, 
Kerry  Quayle — when  he  concocted  a  most  audacious 
scheme,  whereof  Kerry  was  the  chief  subject  and  victim. 
This  had  nothing  less  for  its  aim  and  object  than  to  get 
Kerry  married  to  Hommy-beg — the  blind  woman  to  the 
deaf  man.  Now,  Hommy  was  a  gaunt,  raw-boned  man, 
dressed  in  a  rough  blue  jacket  and  a  short  gray  petticoat. 
His  full  and  proper  name  was  now  quite  lost.  He  was 
known  as  Hommy-beg,  sometimes  as  Hommy-beg-Biil,  a 
name  which  at  once  embodied  a  playful  allusion  to  his 
great  physique,  and  a  certain  genealogical  record  in  show¬ 
ing  that  he  was  little  Tom,  the  son  of  Bill.  Though 
scarcely  short  of  stone-deaf,  he  was  musical.  He  played 
two  instruments,  the  fiddle  and  the  voice.  The  former 
squeaked  like  a  rasp,  and  the  latter  thundered  like  a  fog¬ 
horn.  Away  to  Ballamona  Master  Danny  went,  and  found 
Hommy-beg  thinning  a  bed  of  peonies. 

“Aw,  man,  the  terrible  fond  she  is  of  the  like  o’  that 
swate  flower, "  said  the  young  rogue,  who  spoke  the  home- 
spun  to  the  life.  “Aw,  dear,  the  way  she  smells  at  them 
when  you  bring  them  up  for  the  Bishop !  " 

“  What,  ould  Kerry  ?  Smelling,  is  it  ?  And  never  a 
whiff  of  a  smell  at  the  breed  o’  them  !  " 

“  Och,  no,  it's  not  the  flowers,  it’s  the  man — the  man, 
Hommy." 

“  That’ll  do,  that’ll  do.  And  blind,  too  !  Well,  well." 

“  But  the  swate  temper  that’s  at  her,  Hommy  !  And  the 
coaxing  and  coaxing  of  her !  And,  man  alive,  the  fond  she 
is  of  you  !  A  fine  sort  of  a  man  anyways ,  and  A  rael  good 
voice  at  him.  Aw,  extraordinary,  extraordinary." 

“  D’ye  raely  mane  it  ?  ’’ 

“Mane  it?  Aw,  well,  well,  and  who  but  you  doesn’t 
know  it,  Hommy  ?  ’’ 

“Astonishing,  astonishing  !" 

“Come  up  to  the  Coort  and  take  a  cup  o’  tay  with  her.* 

Hommy-beg  scratched  his  head.  “  Is  it  raely  truf* 
Danny  veg  ?  ” 

“I’ll lave  it  with  you,  Hommy."  said  Danny,  and  straight* 


tBE  DEEMSTER. 


ii 

way  the  young  rascal  went  back  to  Bishop’s  Court,  lighted 
upon  blind  Kerry,  and  entered  upon  agiowing  description 
of  the  personal  charms  of  Hommy-beg. 

“  Aw,  the  good-looking  he  is,  astonishing  !  My  gough  ! 
You  should  see  him  in  his  Sunday  hat,  or  maybe  with  a 
frill  on  his  shirt,  and  smiling,  and  all  to  that !  Terrible 
dacent  sort  is  Ilommy-beg  !” 

“  What,  the  loblolly-boy  in  the  petticoat  ?” 

“Aw,  but  the  tender-hearted  he  is  for  all,  atid,  bless  me, 
Kerry  woman,  the  swate  he  is  on  you  !  ” 

“What,  the  ould  red-head  that  comes  singing,  as  the 
saying  is  ?  ” 

“Aw,  no,  woman,  but  as  black  as  the  raven,  and  the  way 
he  looks  sorrowful-like  when  he  comes  beside  of  you. 
You  wouldn’t  believe  it !  And,  bless  me,  the  rael  bad  he 
is  to  come  up  to  the  Coortand  take  a  cup  of  tay  with  you, 
and  the  like  o’  that.” 

“  Do  you  raely  mane  it,  Danny,  my  chree  ?  ” 

The  very  next  day  Hommy-beg  arrived  at  the  kitchen 
door  of  Bishop’s  Court  in  his  Sunday  hat,  in  the  shirt  with 
the  frill  to  it,  and  with  a  peony  as  big  as  a  March  cabbage 
in  his  fist.  The  end  of  it  all  was  that  Kerry  and  Hommy- 
beg  were  forthwith  asked  in  church.  Wild  as  the  freak 
was  that  made  the  deaf  man  and  the  blind  woman  man 
and  wife,  their  marriage  was  none  the  less  happy  for  their 
infirmities. 

The  Deemster  heard  of  the  plot  on  his  way  to  church 
on  Sunday  morning,  and  he  laughed  in  his  throat  all 
through  the  service,  and  when  the  first  of  the  askings  was 
solemnly  proclaimed  from  the  reading-desk,  he  tittered 
audibly  in  his  pew.  “  Danny  was  tired  of  the  woman’s 
second  sight — found  it  inconvenient,  very — wanted  to  be 
rid  of  her — good!”  he  chuckled.  But  not  long  afterward 
he  enjoyed  a  jest  that  was  yet  more  to  his  taste,  for  his 
own  prime  butt  of  ridicule,  the  Church  itself,  was  then  the 
victim. 

It  was  an  old  Manx  custom  that  on  Christmas  Eve  the 
church  should  be  given  up  to  the  people  for  the  singing 
of  their  native  carols  or  carvals.  The  curious  service  was 
known  as  Oiel  Verree  (the  Eve  of  Mary),  and  at  every 
such  service  for  the  last  twenty  years  Hommy-beg,  the 
gardener,  and  Mr.  James  Quirk,  the  school-master,  had  of¬ 
ficiated  as  singers  in  the  strange  Manx  ritual.  Great  had 
hitherto  been  the  rivalry  between  these  musical  celebrities, 
t>ut  word  had  gone  round  the  town  that  at  length  their 


54 


THE  DEEMSTEk. 


efforts  were  to  be  combined  in  a  carol  which  they  were  t* 
sing  together.  Dan  had  effected  this  extraordinary  com¬ 
bination  of  talent  by  a  plot  which  was  expected  to  add 
largely  to  the  amusement  of  the  listeners. 

Homn\y-beg  could  not  read  a  syllable,  yet  he  never 
would  sing  his  carol  without  having  the  printed  copy  of 
it  in  his  hand.  Of  course,  Mr.  Quirk,  the  school-master, 
could  read,  but,  as  we  have  seen,  he  resembled  Hommy- 
beg  in  being  almost  stone-deaf.  Each  could  hear  himself 
sing,  but  neither  could  hear  another. 

And  now  for  the  plot.  Master  Dan  called  on  the  gar¬ 
dener  at  his  cottage  on  the  Brew  on  the  morning  of  the 
day  before  Christmas  Day,  and  “  Hommy/’  said  he,  ‘‘it’s 
morthal  strange  the  way  a  man  of  your  common  sense 
can't  see  that  you'd  wallop  that  squeaking  ould  Jemmy 
Quirk  in  a  jiffy  if  you’d  only  consent  to  sing  a  ballad 
along  of  him.  Bless  me,  man  alive,  it's  then  they’d  be 
seeing  what  a  weak,  ould  cracked  pot  of  a  voice  is  at 
him.” 

Hommy-beg's  face  began  to  wear  a  smile  of  benevolent 
condescension.  Observing  his  advantage,  the  young  ras¬ 
cal  continued,  “  Do  it  at  the  Oiel  Verree  to-night,  Hommy. 
He'll  sing  his  treble,  and  you’ll  sing  seconds  to  him.” 

It  was  an  unlucky  remark.  The  gardener  frowned  aus¬ 
terely.  “Me  sing  seconds  to  thecraythur?  No,  never!” 

Dan  explained  to  Hommy-beg,  with  a  world  of  abject 
apologies,  that  there  was  a  sense  in  which  seconds  meant 
firsts,  and  at  length  the  gardener  was  mollified,  and  con¬ 
sented  to  the  proposal  ;  but  one  idea  w’as  firmly  rooted  in 
his  mind — namely,  that  if  he  was  to  sing  a  carol  with  the 
school-master,  he  must  take  the  best  of  care  to  sing  his 
loudest,  in  order  to  drown  at  once  the  voice  of  his  rival, 
and  the  bare  notion  that  it  was  he  who  was  singing  sec¬ 
onds  to  such  a  poor  creature  as  that. 

Then  Master  Danny  trotted  off  to  the  school-house, 
where  he  was  now  no  longer  a  scholar,  and  consequently 
enjoyed  an  old  boy's  privilege  of  approaching  the  master 
on  equal  terms,  and  “Jemmy,”  he  said,  “it's  morthal 
strange  the  way  a  man  of  your  common  sense  can’t  see 
that  you'd  wallop  that  squeaking  old  Hommy-beg  in  a 
jiffy  if  you’d  only  consent  to  sing  a  ballad  along  of  him. 
Do  it  at  the  Oiel  Verree  to-night,  Jemmy,  and,  bless  me! 
that's  the  when  they’ll  be  seeing  what  a  weak,  ould  crack¬ 
pot  of  a  voice  is  at  the  craythur/’ 

The  school-master  fell  eveut  aa  easier  prey  to  the  plot* 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


55 


than  the  gardener  had  been.  A  carol  was  selected ;  it 
was  to  be  the  ancient  Manx  carol  on  the  bad  women  men¬ 
tioned  in  the  Bible  as  having  (from  Eve  downward) 
brought  evil  on  mankind. 

Now,  Hommy-beg  kept  his  carols  pinned  against  the 
walls  of  his  cottage.  The  “  Bad  Women  ”  was  the  carol 
which  was  pinned  above  the  mantle-piece,  just  under  the 
pendulum  of  the  clock  with  the  facetious  face.  It  resem¬ 
bled  the  other  prints  in  being  worn,  crumpled,  and  dirty  ; 
but  htommy-beg  knew  it  by  its  position,  and  he  could  dis¬ 
tinguish  every  other  carol  by  its  place  on  his  walls. . 

Danny  had  somehow  got  a  u  skute  into  this  literary 
mystery,  and  after  arranging  with  the  school-master  the 
carol  that  was  to  be  sung,  he  watched  Hommy-beg  out  of 
his  cottage,  and  then  went  into  it  under  pretence  of  a 
friendlv  call  upon  blind  Kerry.  Before  he  left  the  cottage 
he  had  taken  down  the  carol  that  had  been  pinned  above 
the  mantle-piece,  and  fixed  up  another  in  place  of  it  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  The  substituted  carol  hap¬ 
pened,  oddly  enough,  to  be  a  second  copy  of  the  carol  on 
“  Bad  Women,”  with  this  radical  difference  :  the  copy 
taken  from  under  the  clock  was  the  version  of  the  carol 
in  English,  and  the  copy  put  up  was  the  version  in  Manx, 
Toward  ten  o’clock  that  night  the  church  bells  began 
to  ring,  and  Hommy-beg  looked  at  the  clock,  took  the 
carol  from  under  the  pendulum,  put  on  his  best  petticoat, 
and  went  off  to  church. 

Now,  there  were  to  be  seasonable  rejoicings  at  the 
Court  on  the  morrow,  and  Kerry  had  gone  over  to  help  at 
the  Christmas  preparations.  Ewan  and  Mona  had  always 
spent  their  Christmas  at  Bishop’s  Court  since  the  day 
when  they  left  it  as  children.  That  night  they  had  anived 
as  usual,  and  after  they  had  spent  some  hours  with  Danny 
in  dressing  the  house  in  a  green-and-red  garment  of  hib- 
bin  and  hollin,  the  Bishop  had  turned  them  off  to  bed. 
Danny’s  bedroom  was  the  little  crib  over  the  library,  and 
Ewan’s  .was  the  room  over  that.  All  three  bade  the  Bish- 
op  good-night  and  went  into  their  rooms.  But  Danny  did 
not  go  to  bed  ;  he  listened  until  he  heard  the  Bishop  in 
the  library  twisting  his  chair  and  stirring  the  peats,  and 
then  he  whipped  off  his  boots  and  crept  up-stairs  to  Ewan  s 
room.  There  in  bated  breath  he  told  of  the  great  sport 
that  was  to  come  off  at  the  Oiel  Verree,  announced  his  in¬ 
tention  of  going,  and  urged  Ewan  to  go  with  him.  They 
Gould  just  jump  through  the  little  window  of  his  roon** 


5« 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


and  light  on  the  soft  grass  by  the  library  wall,  and  get  in 
again  by  the  same  easy  means.  No  one  would  know  that 
they  had  been  out,  and  what  high  jinks  they  must  have! 
But  no,  Ewan  was  not  to  be  persuaded,  and  Danny  6et  off 
alone. 

Hommy-beg  did  not  reach  the  church  until  the  parson’s 
sermon  was  almost  over.  Prayers  had  been  said  in  ^  thin 
congregation,  but  no  sooner  were  they  done  than  crowds 
of  young  men  and  maidens  tripped  down  the  aisles.  The 
young  women  went  up  into  the  gallery,  and  from  that 
elevation  they  shot  down  at  their  bachelor  friends  large 
handfuls  of  peas.  To  what  ancient  spirit  of  usage,  be¬ 
yond  the  ancient  spirit  of  mischief,  the  strange  practice 
was  due,  we  must  be  content  to  leave,  as  a  solemn  prob¬ 
lem,  to  the  learned  and  curious  antiquaries.  Nearly  every¬ 
body  carried  a  candle,  and  the  candles  of  the  young  wom¬ 
en  were  adorned  with  a  red  ribbon  or  rosette. 

In  passing  out  of  the  church  the  parson  came  face  to 
face  with  Hommy-beg,  who  was  pushing  his  way  up  the 
aisle.  The  expression  on  his  face  was  not  at  the  moment 
one  of  peculiar  grace,  and  he  stopped  the  gardener  and 
said  sharply  in  his  ear,  “Mind  you  see  that  all  is  done  in 
decency  and  order,  and  that  you  close  my  church  before 
midnight.” 

“Aw,  but  the  church  is  the  people’s,  I’m  thinkin’,”  said 
Hommy-beg  with  a  shake  of  his  tousled  head. 

“  The  people  are  as  ignorant  as  goats,”  said  the  parson, 
angrily. 

“Aw,  well,  and  you’re  their  shepherd,  so  just  make 
sheeps  of  them,”  said  Hommy-beg,  and  he  pushed  on. 

Danny  was  there  by%this  time,  and,  with  a  face  of 
mighty  solemnity,  he  sat  on  the  right  of  Hommy-beg,  and 
held  a  candle  in  his  left  hand.  When  everything  was  un¬ 
derstood  to  be  ready,  and  Will-as-Thorn,  the  clerk,  had 
taken  his  station  inside  the  communion-rail,  the  business 
of  the  Oiel  Verree  began.  First  one  man  got  up  and  sung 
a  carol  in  English  j  then  another  sung  a  Manx  carol.  But 
the  great  event  of  the  night  was  to  be  the  carol  sung  by 
the  sworn  enemies  and  rivals,  Hommy-beg  and  Mr.  James 
Quirk. 

At  last  the  time  came  for  these  worthies.  They  rose  from 
opposite  sides  of  the  church,  eyed  each  other  with  severe 
looks,  stepped  out  of  their  pews,  and  walked  down  the 
aisle  to  the  door  of  the  porch.  Then  they  turned  about  in 
silence,  and,  standing  side  by  side,  faced  the  communiQa? 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


jjf 


The  tittering  in  the  gallery  and  whispering  in  the  body 
were  audible  to  all  except  the  persons  who  were  the  cause 
of  both.  “Hush,  hush,  man  alive,  that’s  him,  that’s  him.” 
“  Bless  me,  look  at  Hommy-beg  and  the  petticut,  and  the 
handkercher  pinnin’  round  his  throat.”  “Aw,  dear,  it’s 
what  he’s  used  of.”  “A  regular  Punch  and  Judy.” 

Danny  was  exerting  himself  at  that  moment  to  keep 
order  and  silence.  “Hush,  man,  let  them  make  a  start  for 
all.” 

The  carol  the  rivals  were  about  to  sing  contained  some 
thirty  verses.  It  was  an  ancient  usage  that  after  each 
verse  the  carol  singers  should  take  a  long  stride  toward 
the  communion.  By  the  time  the  carol  of  “Bad  Women” 
came  to  an  end  the  carol  singers  must,  therefore,  be  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  church. 

There  was  now  a  sublime  scorn  printed  on  the  features 
of  Mr.  Quirk.  As  for  Hommy-beg,  lie  looked,  at  this  last 
instant,  like  a  man  who  was  rather  sorry  than  otherwise 
for  his  rash  adversary. 

“The  rermantic  they’re  looking,”  whispered  a  girl  in  the 
gallery  to  the  giggling  companion  beside  her. 

Expectation  was  at  its  highest  when  Hommy-beg  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  brought  out  the  printed  copy 
of  the  carol.  Hommy  unfolded  it,  glanced  at  it  with  the 
air  of  a  conductor  taking  a  final  took  at  his  score,  nodded 
his  head  at  it  as  if  in  approval,  and  then,  with  a  magnani¬ 
mous  gesture,  held  it  between  himself  and  Mr.  Quirk.  The 
school-master  in  turn  glanced  at  it,  glanced  again,  glanced 
a  third  time  at  the  paper,  and  up  into  the  face  of  Hommy- 
beg. 

Anxiety  was  now  on  tiptoe.  “  Hush,  d’ye  hear,  hush,” 
whispered  Danny  from  his  pew  ;  “  hush,  man,  or  it's  spoil¬ 
ing  it  all  you’ll  be,  for  sure.” 

At  the  moment  when  Mr.  Quirk  glanced  into  the  face 
of  Hommy-beg  there  was  a  smile  on  that  countenance. 
Mr.  Quirk  mistook  that  smile.  He  imagined  he  saw  a 
trick.  The  school-master  could  read,  and  he  perceived 
that  the  carol  which  the  gardener  held  out  to  him  was  not 
the  carol  for  which  he  had  been  told  by  Master  Danny  to 
prepare.  They  were,  by  arrangement,  to  have  sung  the 
English  version  of  “  Bad  Women.”  This  was  the  Manx 
version,  and  though  the  metre  was  the  same,  it  was  always 
sung  to  a  different  tune.  Ah  !  Mr.  Quirk  understood  it 
all !  The  monster  wanted  to  show  that  he,  James  Quirk, 
school-master,  could  only  sing  one  carol  j  but,  as  sure  a* 


THE  deemster. 


58 

his  name  was  Jemmy,  he  would  be  equal  with  him  !  He 
scouid  sing  this  Manx  version,  and  he  would.  It  was  now 
Mr.  Quirk’s  turn  to  smile. 

“Aw,  look  at  them — the  two  of  them — grinnin’  together 
like  a  pair  of  old  gurgoils  on  the  steeple  !  ” 

At  a  motion  of  the  gardener’s  hand,  intended  to  beat 
the  time,  the  singers  began.  Hommy-beg  sung  the  carol 
agreed  upon — the  English  version  of  “  Bad  Women.”  Mr. 
Quirk  sung  the  carol  they  held  in  their  hands — the  Manx 
version  of  “  Bad  Women.”  Neither  heard  the  other,  and 
to  dispel  the  bare  notion  that  either  was  singing  seconds, 
each  bawled  at  the  utmost  reach  of  his  lung-power#  To 
one  tune  Hommy-beg  sung  : 

Thus  from  the  days  of  Adam 
Her  mischief  you  may  trace. 

And  to  another  Mr.  Quirk  sung  : 

She  ish  va’n  voir  ain  ooilley 
Son  v’ee  da  Adam  ben. 

Such  laughter !  How  the  young  women  in  the  gallery 
lay  back  in  their  seats  with  hysterical  shrieks  !  How  the 
young  fellows  in  the  body  made  the  sacred  edifice  ring 
with  guffaws !  But  the  singers,  with  eyes  steadfastly 
fixed  on  the  paper,  heard  nothing  but  each  his  own  voice. 

Three  verses  had  been  sung,  and  three  strides  made 
toward  the  communion,  when  suddenly  the  laughter  and 
shouting  of  the  people  ceased.  All  eyes  had  turned 
toward  the  porch.  There  the  Bishop  stood,  with  blank 
amazement  printed  on  his  face,  his  head  bare,  and  one 
hand  on  the  half -opened  door. 

If  a  spectre  had  appeared  the  consternation  had  scarcely 
been  greater.  Danny  had  been  rolling  in  his  pew  with 
unconstrained  laughter,  but  at  sight  of  the  Bishop  his 
candle  fell  from  his  hand  and  sputtered  on  the  book-rail. 
The  Bishop  turned  about,  and  before  the  people  had  re¬ 
covered  from  their  surprise  he  was  gone.  At  the  next 
moment  everybody  got  up  without  a  word  and  left  the 
church.  In  two  minutes  more  not  a  soul  remained  except 
Hommy-beg  anch  Mr.  Jemmy  Quirk,  who,  with  eyes  riv¬ 
eted  on  the  printed  carol  in  their  hands,  still  sung  lustily, 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  they  had  no  audience. 

When  Danny  left  the  church  that  night  it  was  through 
the  lancet-window  of  the  vestry.  Dropping  on  the  turf  aj 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


59 


the  northeast  of  the  church,  he  leaped  the  wall  that  divided 
the  churchyard  from  a  meadow  on  the  north,  and  struck 
upon  a  path  that  went  round  to  Bishop’s  Court  by  way  of 
the  cliff-head.  The  path  was  a  long  one,  but  it  was  lone¬ 
some,  and  its  lonesomeness  was  no  small  merit  in  Danny’s 
view  that  night.  The  Bishop  must  return  to  the  Court 
by  the  highway  through  the  village,  and  the  Bishop  must 
be  in  front  of  him. 

The  night  was  dark  and  dumb,  and,  laden  with  salt 
scent,  the  dank  vapor  floated  up  from  the  sea.  Danny 
walked  quickly.  The  deep  boom  of  the  waters  rolling  on 
the  sand  below  came  up  to  him  through  the  dense  air. 
Late  as  was  the  hour,  he  could  hear  the  little  sand-piper 
screaming  at  Orris  Head.  The  sea-swallow  shot  over  him 
too,  with  its  low,  mournful  cry.  Save  for  .these  sounds, 
and  the  quick  beat  of  his  own  feet,  all  was  still  around 
him. 

Beneath  his  stubborn  bit  of  scepticism  Danny  was 
superstitious.  Ke  was  full  to  the  throat  of  fairy-lore  and 
stories  of  witchcraft.  He  had  learned  both  from  old  Billy 
Quilleash  and  his  mates  as  they  sat  barking  their  nets  on 
the  shore.  And  that  night  the  ghostly  memories  would 
arise,  do  what  he  might  to  keep  them  down.  To  banish 
them  Danny  began  to  whistle,  and,  failing  to  enliven  him¬ 
self  much  by  that  exercise,  he  began  to  sing.  His  selec¬ 
tion  of  a  song  was  not  the  happiest  under  the  circum¬ 
stances.  It  was  the  doleful  ballad  of  “  Myle  Charaine.” 
Danny  sung  it  in  Manx,  but  here  is  a  stave  of  it  in  Eng¬ 
lish  : 

Oh,  Myle  Charaine,  where  got  you  your  gold  ? 

Lone,  lone,  you  have  left  me  here  ; 

Oh,  not  in  the  Curragh,  deep  under  the  mould— 

Lone,  lone,  and  void  of  cheer. 


He  had  come  up  to  Bishop’s  Court  on  the  sea-front,  and 
there  the  Bishop’s  library  stood  out  from  the  body  of  the 
old  house,  between  the  chapel  porch  and  the  kitchen  of¬ 
fices.  A  light  was  in  the  library,  and  passing  over  the 
soft  grass  with  the  soft  flight  of  a  lapwing,  Danny  peered 
in  at  the  curtainless  window.  The  familiar  room  was 
empty.  On  the  hearth  a  turf  fire  burned  without  flame, 
anc  bathed  the  book-incased  walls  in  a  rosy  red.  The 
Bishop’s  easy-chair,  in  its  white  covering,  stood  at  one  side 
of  the  ingle,  his  slippers  in  front  of  it ;  and  beside  it,  on  the 
litUe  three-legged  mahogany  table,  were  the  iakhora  and 


6 o 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


the  long  qilill,  and  the  Bishop’s  four-cornered  library  cap. 
The  door  stood  ajar,  and  the  two  candles  in  the  two  brass 
brackets  at  each  side  of  the  fireplace  were  tipped  by  their 
extinguishers. 

The  Bishop  had  not  returned  ;  but  the  faint  smile  of 
triumph  which  at  that  thought  rested  like  a  ray  of  pale 
sunshine  on  Danny’s  face  suddenly  vanished.  In  a  lad’s 
vague  way  Danny  now  realized  that  it  had  not  been 
merely  because  the  night  was  dark  and  the  road  lonely 
that  he  had  whistled  and  sung.  He  hung  his  head  where 
he  stood  in  the  night,  and  as  if  by  an  involuntary  move¬ 
ment,  he  lifted  his  cap  and  fumbled  it. 

At  the  next  instant  Danny  was  clambering  up  the  angle 
of  the  wall  to  the  lead  flat  that  covered  the  projecting  part 
of  the  library.  From  this  lead  flat  there  opened  the  win¬ 
dow  of  his  own  bedroom,  and  in  amomenthe  was  striding 
through  it.  All  was  darkness  within,  but  he  needed  no 
light  to  see  his  way  in  that  room.  He  knew  every  crib  and 
corner ;  the  place  where  he  kept  his  fishing  lines,  the  nail 
from  which  his  moth-net  hung,  the  bottle  on  the  drawers 
in  which  he  had  his  minnows,  and  the  can  with  the  lid  well 
down  that  contained  the  newts  that  were  the  terror  of  all 
the  women  in  the  house.  If  Danny  had  been  as  blind  as 
old  Kerry  he  could  have  found  everything  his  room  had  in 
it,  except,  perhaps,  his  breeches,  or  his  shirt,  or  his  other 
coat,  or  that  cap  that  was  always  getting  itself  lost,  and  of 
course  no  sight  and  no  light  would  help  a  lad  to  find  things 
like  these. 

Hardly  had  Danny  taken  a  step  into  his  room  before  he 
realized  that  someone  had  been  there  since  he  left  it. 
Derry,  his  white-eyed  collie,  who  had  been  lying*  on  the 
bed,  dropped  on  the  floor,  and  frisked  about  him.  “  Down, 
Derry,  down  !  ”  he  whispered,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought  j 
it  might  have  been  Derry  that  had  pushed  open  the  door. 
But  the  dog’s  snout  could  not  have  turned  down  the  coun¬ 
terpane  of  the  bed,  or  opened  the  top  drawer  that  held  the  i 
fishing  flies,  or  rummaged  among  the  long  rods  in  the  cor¬ 
ner.  The  counterpane  lay  double,  the  drawer  stood  open, 
the  rods  were  scattered — someone  had  been  there  to  look 
for  him,  and,  not  finding  him,  had  tried  to  find  a  reason 
for  his  absence,  and  that  someone  had  either  come  into  the 
room  in  the  dark,  or — been  blind. 

“Aw,  it’s  always  Kerry  that’s  in  it,”  Danny  told  himself, 
and  with  an  unpleasant  remembrance  of  Kerry’s  strange 
faculty,  whereof  he  was  the  peculiar  victim,  he  reflected 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


6i 

that  his  race  home  had  been  vain.  Then  on  the  instant 
Danny  found  himself  concocting  a  trick  to  defeat  appear¬ 
ances.  He  had  a  foot  on  the  stairs  to  carry  out  his  design, 
When  he  heard  the  door  at  the  front  of  the  house  open  and 
close,  and  a  familiar  step  pass  through  the  hall.  The 
Bishop  had  returned.  Danny  waited  and  listened.  Now 
there  was  talking  in  the  library.  Danny’s  quick  ear  could 
scarcely  distinguish  the  words,  but  the  voices  he  could  not 
mistake — they  were  the  voices  of  the  Bishop  and  blind 
Kerry.  With  a  stealthy  stride  Danny  went  up  to  Ewan’s 
room.  Ewan  was  sleeping.  Feeling  hot  and  cold  together, 
Danny  undressed  and  turned  into  bed.  Before  he  had 
time  to  bury  his  head  under  the  clothes  he  heard  the  Bishop 
on  the  stairs.  The  footsteps  passed  into  the  room  below, 
and  then  after  an  interval  they  were  again  on  the  stairs. 
In  another  moment  Danny  knew,  though  of  course  his  eyes 
were  fast  shut,  and  he  was  sleeping  most  profoundly,  that 
the  Bishop  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand  was  leaning 
over  him. 

It  would  wrong  the  truth  to  say  that  Master  Danny’s 
slumber  was  disturbed  that  night;  but  next  morning  when 
the  boys  awoke  together,  and  Ewan  rose  on  his  elbow  with 
a  puzzled  gaze  at  his  unexpected  bedfellow,  Danny  sidled 
out  of  the  bed  on  to  the  floor,  and,  without  looking  too 
much  into  Ewan’s  face,  he  began  hi«  toilet,  as  was  his 
wont,  by  putting  on  his  cap.  He  had  got  this  length,  and 
was  standing  in  cap  and  shirt,  when  he  blurted  out  the 
mischief  of  last  night’s  adventure,  the  singing,  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  Bishop,  the  race  home  along  the  cliff, 
and  the  coming  up  to  bed.  “  But  you  won’t  let  on,  Ewan, 
will  you  ?  ”  he  said.  Ewan  looked  at  that  moment  as  if  the 
fate  of  the  universe  hung  on  his  answer,  but  he  gave  the 
promise  that  was  required  of  him.  Then  the  boys  went 
down-stairs  and  found  Mona,  and  imparted  the  dread  se¬ 
cret  to  her.  Presently  the  Bishop  came  in  to  breakfast 
with  a  face  that  was  paler  than  usual,  and  more  than  or¬ 
dinarily  solemn. 

“Danny,”  he  said,  “why  did  you  not  sleep  in  your  own 
bed  last  night,  my  boy?” 

“  I  slept  with  Ewan,  father,”  Danny  answered,  promptly. 

The  Bishop  said  no  more  then,  and  they  all  sat  down  at 
the  table. 

“And  so  you  two  boys  went  to  bed  together — together t” 
he  said,  and,  with  a  dig  of  emphasis  on  bi«  last  word,  re* 
peated,  he  looked  at  Ewan. 


62 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Ewan's  face  crimsoned,  and  his  tongue  faltered,  “YeS* 

uncle.” 

The  Bishop's  eyes  fell.  “  Boys,”  he  said,  in  another  tone, 
“  would  you  think  it  ?  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong.” 

The  boys  were  just  then  most  intent  on  the  table-cloth. 

“  You  must  know,”  the  Bishop  went  on,  “that  there  was 
a  most  unseemly  riot  at  the  Oiel  Verree,  and  all  night  long 
I  have  been  sore  troubled  by  the  bad  thought  that  Danny 
Was  in  the  midst  of  it.” 

The  boys  held  their  heads  very  low  over  their  plates, 
and  Mona's  big  eyes  filled  visibly.  Danny’s  impulse  was 
to  blurt  out  the  whole  mischief  there  and  then,  but  he  re¬ 
flected  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  charge  Ewan  with  false¬ 
hood.  Ewan,  on  his  part,  would  have  confessed  to  the  de¬ 
ception,  but  he  knew  that  this  would  mean  that  Danny 
must  be  punished.  The  boy’s  wise  head  could  see  no  way 
out  of  a  tangle  like  that.  The  breakfast  was  the  quietest 
ever  eaten  on  a  Christmas  morning  at  Bishop’s  Court,  and, 
little  as  the  talking  was,  the  Bishop,  strangely  enough,  did 
it  all.  But  when  they  rose  from  the  table,  and  the  boys 
slunk  out  of  the  room  with  most  portentous  gravity,  Mona 
went  up  to  the  Bishop  with  a  face  full  of  liquid  grief,  and 
turning  the  whole  depths  of  her  great  troubled  eyes  upon 
him,  the  little  maiden  said,  “  Ewan  didn’t  mean  to  tell  you 
what  wasn’t  true — and  cousin  Danny  didn't  intend  to  de¬ 
ceive — but  he  was — that  is,  Danny — I  mean — dear  uncle, 
you  won’t— — ” 

“You  mean  that  Danny  was  at  the  Oiel  Verree  last 
night — I  know  it,  child,  I  know  it,”  said  the  Bishop,  and 
he  patted  her  head  and  smiled. 

But  the  Bishop  knew  also  that  Danny  had  that  day 
made  one  more  step  down  the  steep  of  life,  and  left  a  little 
ghost  of  his  child-self  behind  him,  and  in  his  secret  heart 
the  Bishop  saw  that  shadowy  form,  and  wept  oyer  it, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMEN. 

Now  the  facts  of  this  history  must  stride  on  some  six 
years,  and  in  that  time  the  Deemster  had  lost  nearly  allj 
the  little  interest  he  ever  felt  in  his  children.  Mona  had 
budded  into  womanhood,  tender,  gracious,  quiet — a  tall* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


% 

fair-haired  maiden  of  twenty,  with  a  drooping  head  like 
a  flower,  with  a  voice  soft  and  low,  and  the  full  blue 
eyes  with  their  depths  of  love  and  sympathy  shaded  by 
long  fluttering  lashes  as  the  trembling  sedge  shades 
the  deep  mountain  pool.  It  was  as  ripe  and  beautiful 
a  womanhood  as  the  heart  of  a  father  might  dream  of, 
but  the  Deemster  could  take  little  pleasure  in  it.  If 
Mona  had  been  his  son,  her  quiet  ways  and  tractable  nature 
might  have  counted  for  something  ;  but  a  woman  was  only 
a  woman  in  the  Deemster's  eyes,  and  the  Deemster,  like 
the  Bedouin  chief,  would  have  numbered  his  children 
without  counting  his  daughter.  As  for  Ewan,  he  had 
falsified  every  hope  of  the  Deemster.  His  Spartan  train¬ 
ing  had  gone  for  nothing.  He  was  physically  a  weakling  ; 
a  tall,  spare  youth  of  two-and  twenty,  fair-haired,  like  his 
sister,  with  a  face  as  spiritual  and  beautiful,  and  hardly 
less  feminine.  He  was  of  a  self-torturing  spirit,  constant¬ 
ly  troubled  with  vague  questionings,  and  though  in  this 
regard  he  was  very  much  his  father's  son,  the  Deemster 
held  his  temperament  in  contempt. 

The  end  of  all  was  that  Ewan  showed  a  strong  desire  to 
enter  the  Church.  The  Deemster  had  intended  that  his  son 
should  study  the  law  and  follow  him  in  his  place  when  his 
time  came.  But  Ewan's  womanly  temperament  coexisted 
with  a  manly  temper.  Into  the  law  he  would  not  go,  and 
the  Church  he  was  resolved  to  follow.  The  Bishop  had 
then  newly  opened  at  Bishop's  Court  a  training  college 
|  for  his  clergy,  and  Ewan  sought  and  obtained  admission. 
The  Deemster  fumed,  but  his  son  was  not  to  be  moved 
even  by  his  wrath.  This  was  when  Ewan  was  nineteen 
years  of  age,  and*after  two  more  years  the  spirituality  of 
his  character  overcame  the  obstacle  of  his  youth,  and  the 
Bishop  ordained  him  at  twenty-one.  Then  Ewan  was 
made  chaplain  to  the  household  at  Bishop’s  Court. 

Hardly  had  this  been  done  when  Ewan  took  another 
step  in  life.  With  the  knowledge  of  the  Bishop,  but  with¬ 
out  consulting  tne  Deemster,  he  married,  being  now  of 
age,  a  pretty  child  of  sixteen,  the  daughter  of  his  father's 
old  foe,  the  vicar  of  the  parish.  When  knowledge  of  this 
act  of  unwisdom  reached  the  Deemster  his  last  remaining 
spark  of  interest  in  his  son  expired,  and  he  sent  Mona 
across  to  Bishop's  Court  with  a  curt  message  saying  that 
Ewan  and  his  wife  were  at  liberty,  if  they  liked,  to  take  pos¬ 
session  of  the  old  Ballamona.  Thus  he  turned  his  back 
upon  his  son,  and  did  his  best  to  wipe  him  out  of  his  mind. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


H 

Ewan  took  his  young  wife  to  the  homestead  that  had 
been  the  place  of  his  people  for  six  generations,  the  place 
where  he  himself  had  been  born,  the  place  where  that 
other  Ewan,  his  good  grandfather,  had  lived  and  died. 

More  than  ever  for  these  events  the  Deemster  became  a 
solitary  man.  He  kept  no  company;  he  took  no  pleas¬ 
ures.  Alone  he  sat  night  after  night  in  his  study  at  Bal- 
lamona,  and  Ballamona  was  asleep  before  he  slept,  and 
before  it  awoke  he  was  stirring.  His  daughter's  presence 
in  the  house  was  no  society  for  the  Deemster.  She  grew 
beside  him  like  her  mother's  youth,  a  yet  fairer  vision  of 
the  old  days  coming  back  to  him  hour  by  hour,  but  he  saw 
nothing  of  all  that.  Disappointed  in  his  sole  hope,  his 
son,  whom  truly  he  had  never  loved  for  love's  sake,  but 
only  for  his  own  sorry  ambitions,  he  sat  down  under  his 
disappointment  a  doubly-soured  and  thrice-hardened  man. 
He  had  grown  noticeably  older,  but  his  restless  energy 
suffered  no  abatement.  Biweekly  he  kept  his  courts,  but 
few  sought  the  law  whom  the  law  did  not  first  find,  for 
word  went  round  that  the  Deemster  was  a  hard  judge,  and 
deemed  the  laws  in  rigor.  If  men  differed  about  money, 
they  would  say,  “  Och,  why  go  to  the  Deemster?  It's 
throwing  a  bone  into  the  bad  dog's  mouth,  and  then  they 
would  divide  their  difference. 

The  one  remaining  joy  of  the  Deemster's  lonely  life  was 
centred  in  his  brother's  son,  Dan.  That  lusty  youth  had 
not  disappointed  his  expectations.  At  twenty  ne  wasai 
braw,  brown-haired,  brown-eyed  lad  of  six  feet  two  inches, 
in  stature,  straight  and  upright,  and  with  the  thews  and 
sinews  of  an  ox.  He  was  the  athlete  of  the  island,  and 
where  there  was  a  tough  job  of  wrestling  to  be  had,  or  a 
delightful  bit  of  fighting  to  be  done,  there  was  Dan  in  the 
heart  of  it.  “Aw,  and  middling  few  could  come  amgh 
him,"  the  people  used  to  say.  But  more  than  in  Dan’s 
great  stature  and  great  strength,  the  little  Deemster  took 
a  bitter  pleasure  in  his  daring  irreverence  for  things  held 
sacred.  In  this  regard  Dan  had  not  improved  with  im¬ 
proving  years.  Scores  of  tricks  his  sad  pugnacity  devisee 
to  help  the  farmers  to  cheat  the  parson  of  his  tithe,  and  n 
added  not  a  little  to  the  Deemster's  keen  relish  of  freak! 
like  these  that  it  was  none  other  than  the  son  oi  th< 
Bishop  who  perpetrated  them.  As  for  the  Bishop  him 
self,  he  tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  such  follies.  He  mean 
his  son  to  go  into  the  Church,  and,  in  spite  of  all  out 
bursts  of  spirits,  notwithstanding  wrestling  matches  am 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


6% 

fights,  and  even  some  tipsy  broils  of  which  rumor  was  in 
the  air,  he  entered  Dan  as  a  student  at  the  college  he  kept 
at  Bishop’s  Court. 

In  due  course  the  time  of  Dan’s  examination  came,  and 
then  all  further  clinging  to  a  forlorn  hope  was  at  an  end. 
The  Archdeacon  acted  as  the  Bishop’s  examining  chap¬ 
lain,  and  more  than  once  the  little  man  had  declared  in 
advance  his  conscientious  intention  of  dealing  with  the 
Bishop's  son  as  he  would  deal  with  any  other.  The  ex¬ 
amination  took  place  in  the  library  of  Bishop’s  Court,  and 
besides  the  students  and  the  examiner  there  were  some 
six  or  seven  of  the  clergy  present,  and  Ewan  Mylrea,  then 
newly  ordained,  was  among  them.  It  was  a  purely  oral 
examination,  and  when  Dan's  turn  came  the  Archdeacon 
assumed  his  loftiest  look,  and  first  tackled  the  candidate 
where  he  was  known  to  be  weakest. 

“  I  suppose,  sir,  you  think  you  can  read  your  Greek 
Testament?" 

Dan  answered  that  he  had  never  thought  anything 
about  it. 

“  I  dare  say  for  all  your  modesty  that  you  have  an  idea 
:hat  you  know  it  well  enough  to  teach  it,"  said  the  Arch- 
leacon. 

Dan  hadn't  an  idea  on  the  subject. 

“  Take  down  the  Greek  Testament,  and  imagine  that 
I’m  your  pupil,  and  proceed  to  expound  it,’’  said  the 
\rchdeacon. 

Dan  took  the  book  from  the  bookcase  and  fumbled  it  in 
lis  fingers. 

“  Well,  sir,  open  at  the  parable  of  the  tares." 

Dan  scratched  his  big  head  leisurely,  and  he  did  his  best 
o  find  the  place.  “  So  I’m  to  be  tutor — is  that  it?  "he 
►aid,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

“  That  is  so." 

“  And  you  are  to  be  the  pupil  ?  " 

“  Precisely — suppose  yourself  my  tutor — and  now  be- 
pn." 

At  this  Ewan  stepped  out  with  a  look  of  anxiety.  “  Is 
lot  that  a  rather  difficult  supposition,  Archdeacon?"  he 
aid,  timidly. 

The  Archdeacon  glanced  over  his  grandson  loftily  and 
□ade  no  reply. 

!  “Begin,  sir,  begin,"  he  said,  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand 
oward  Dan,  and  at  that  he  sat  down  in  the  high-backed 
•ak  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table# 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


9b 

Then  on  the  instant  there  came  into  Dan’s  quick  eyes  a 
most  mischievous  twinkle.  He  was  standing  before  the 
table  with  the  Greek  Testament  open  at  the  parable  of 
the  tares,  and  he  knew  too  well  he  could  not  read  the 
parable. 

“  When  do  we  change  places,  Archdeacon  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  We  have  changed  places — you  are  now  the  tutor — I 
am  your  pupil — begin,  sir.” 

“  Oh !  we  have  changed  places,  have  we  ?  ”  said  Dan, 
and  at  that  he  lifted  up  the  Archdeacon’s  silver-tipped 
walking-cane  which  lay  on  the  table  and  brought  it  down 
again  with  a  bang.  “  Then  just  you  get  up  off  your  chair, 
sir,”  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  command. 

The  Archdeacon’s  russet  face  showed  several  tints  of 
blue  at  that  moment,  but  he  rose  to  his  feet.  Thereupon 
Dan  handed  him  the  open  book. 

“  Now,  sir,”  he  said,  “  first  read  me  the  parable  of  the 
tares.” 

The  clergy  began  to  shuffle  about  and  look  into  each 
other’s  faces.  The  Archdeacon’s  expression  was  not  amia¬ 
ble,  but  he  took  the  book  and  read  the  parable. 

“Very  fair,  very  fair  indeed,”  said  Dan,  in  a  tone  of 
mild  condescension — “a  few  false_  quantities,  but  very  fair 
on  the  whole.” 

“  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  this  is  going  too  far,”  said  one 
of  the  clergy. 

“  Silence,  sir,”  said  Dan,  with  a  look  of  outraged  au¬ 
thority. 

Then  there  was  dire  confusion.  Some  of  the  clergy 
laughed  outright,  and  some  giggled  under  their  breath, 
and  some  protested  in  white  wrath,  and  the  end  of  it  all 
was  that  the  examination  came  to  a  sudden  termination, 
and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  wisely  or  foolishly,  Dan  was  ad* 
judged  to  be  unfit  for  the  ministry  of  the  Church. 

When  the  Bishop  heard  the  verdict  his  pale  face 
whitened  visibly,  and  he  seemed  to  see  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  At  that  moment  he  thought  of  the  Deemster 
with  bitterness.  This  blow  to  his  hopes  did  not  cement 
the  severed  lives  of  the  brothers.  The  forces  that  had1 
been  dividing  them  year  by  year  since  the  days  of  their 
father  appeared  to  be  drawing  them  yet  wider  apart  in  the 
lives  and  fortunes  of  their  children.  Each  felt  that  the 
other  was  frustrating  his  dearest  expectations  in  his  son 
and  that  was  an  offence  that  nekher  could  forgive.  Tc 
the  Deemster  it  seemed  that  the  Bishop  was  bearing  d"WT 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*1 

every  ambition  of  his  life,  tearing  him  up  as  a  naked  trunk, 
leaving  him  a  childless  man.  To  the  Bishop  it  seemed 
that  the  Deemster  was  wrecking  the  one  life  that  was  more 
to  him  than  his  own  soul,  and  standing  between  him  and 
the  heart  that  with  all  its  follies  was  dearer  than  the  world 
beside.  From  this  time  of  Ewan’s  marriage  and  Dan’s 
disgrace  the  Bishop  and  the  Deemster  rarely  met,  and 
when  they  passed  on  the  road  they  exchanged  only  the 
coldest  salutation. 

But  if  the  fates  were  now  more  than  ever  fostering  an 
unnatural  enmity  between  the  sons  of  old  Ewan,  they  were 
cherishing  at  the  same  time  the  loves  of  their  children. 
Never  were  cousins  more  unlike  or  more  fondly  attached. 
Between  Dan,  the  reckless  scapegrace,  and  Mona,  with  the 
big  soft  eyes  and  the  quiet  ways,  the  affection  was  such  as 
neither  understood.  They  had  grown  up  side  by  side, 
they  had  seen  each  other  daily,  they  had  scampered  along 
the  shore  with  clasped  hands,  they  had  screamed  at  the 
sea-gulls  with  one  voice,  and  still  they  were  boy  and  girl 
together.  But  once  they  were  stooking  the  barley  in  the 
glebe,  and,  the  day  being  hot,  Mona  tipped  back  her  white 
sun  bonnet,  and  it  fell  onto  her  shoulders.  Seeing  this,  Dan 
came  stealthily  behind  and  thought  very  craftily  to  whisk 
it  away  unobserved  ;  but  the  strings  by  which  it  was  tied 
caught  in  her  hair  and  tugged  at  its  knot,  and  the  beauti¬ 
ful  wavy  shower  fell  rip-rip-rippling  down  her  back.  The 
wind  caught  the  loosened  hair  and  tossed  it  about  her,  and 
she  stood  up  erect  among  the  corn  with  the  first  blush  on 
her  cheeks  that  Dan  had  ever  brought  there,  and  turned 
full  upon  him  all  the  glorious  light  of  her  deep  blue  eyes. 
Then,  then,  oh  then,  Dan  seemed  to  see  her  for  the  first 
time  a  girl  no  longer,  but  a  woman,  a  woman,  a  woman  ! 
And  the  mountains  behind  her  were  in  one  instant  blotted 
out  of  Dan’s  eyes,  and  everything  seemed  to  spin  about 
him. 

When  next  he  knew  where  he  was,  and  what  he  was  do¬ 
ing,  behold,  there  were  Mona’s  rosy  lips  under  his,  and  she 
was  panting  and  gasping  for  breath. 

But  if  the  love  of  Dan  and  Mona  was  more  than  cous¬ 
inly,  though  they  knew  it  not  as  yet,  the  love  of  Ewan  for 
Dan  was  wonderful  and  passing  the  loye  of  women.  That 
pure  soul,  with  its  vague  spiritual  yearnings,  seemed  to 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  jovial  roysterer,  always 
fighting,  always  laughing,  taking  disgrace  as  a  duck  takes 
Water,  and  losing  the  trace  of  it  as  easily.  Twenty  times 


68 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


he  stood  between  the  scapegrace  and  the  Bishop,  twenty 
times  he  hid  from  the  good  father  the  follies  of  the  son. 
He  thought  for  that  thoughtless  head  that  never  had  an 
ache  or  a  care  under  its  abundant  curls;  he  hoped  for 
that  light  heart  that  hoped  for  nothing  ;  he  trembled  for 
the  soul  that  felt  no  fear.  Never  was  such  loyalty  between 
man  and  man  since  David  wept  for  Jonathan.  And  Ewan’s 
marriage  disturbed  this  affection  not  at  all,  for  the  love  he 
bore  to  Dan  was  a  brotherly  passion  for  which  language 
has  yet  no  name, 

Let  us  tell  one  story  that  shall  show  this  friendship  in 
its  double  bearings — Ewan’s  love  and  temper  and  Dan’s 
heedless  harshness  and  the  great  nature  beneath  it,  and 
then  we  will  pass  on  with  fuller  knowledge  to  weightier 
matters. 

Derry,  the  white-eyed  collie  that  had  nestled  on  the  top 
of  his  master’s  bed  the  night  Dan  sneaked  home  in  dis¬ 
grace  from  the  Oiel  Verree,  was  a  crafty  little  fox,  with 
cunning  and  duplicity  l)red  in  his  very  bones.  If  you  were 
a  tramp  of  the  profession  of  Billy  the  Gawk,  he  would 
look  up  at  you  with  his  big  innocent  eyes,  and  lick  your 
hand,  and  thrust  his  nose  into  your  palm,  and  the  next 
moment  he  would  seize  you  by  the  hindmost  parts  and 
hold  on  like  a  leech.  His  unamiable  qualities  grew  as  he 
grew  in  years,  and  one  dayT)an  went  on  a  long  journey, 
leaving  Derry  behind,,  and  when  he  returned  "he  had 
another  dog  with  him,  a  great  shaggy  Scotch  collie,  with 
bright  eyes,  a  happy  phiz,  and  a  huge  bush  of  a  taiL 
Derry  was  at  the  gate  when  his  master  came  home,  and 
he  eyed  the  new-comer  with  looks  askance.  From  that 
day  Derry  turned  his  back  on  his  master,  he  would  never 
answer  his  call,  and  he  did  not  know  his  whistle  from  the 
croak  of  a  corn-crake.  In  fact,  Derry  took  his  own  courses, 
and  forthwith  fell  into  all  manner  of  dissolute  habits.  He 
went  out  at  night  alone,  incognito,  and  kept  most  unchris-, 
tian  hours.  The  farmers  around  complained  that  theiri 
sheep  were  found  dead  in  the  field,  torn  and  worried  by  a 
dog’s  teeth.  Derry  was  known  to  be  a  dog  that  did  noti 
live  a  reputable  life,  and  suspicion  fell  on  him.  Dan  tooki 
the  old  fox  in  hand,  and  thenceforward  Derry  looked  outi 
on  the  world  through  a  rope  muzzle. 

One  day  there  was  to  be  a  sheep-dog  match,  and  Dan  en-i 
tered  his  Scotch  collie,  Laddie.  The  race  was  to  be  in  the; 
meadow  at  the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo,  and  great  crowds  of 
people  came  to  witness  it.  Hurdles  were  set  up  to  make 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


69 


all  crooks  and  cranks  of  difficulty,  and  then  a  drift  of  sheep 
were  turned  loose  in  the  field.  The  prize  was  to  the  deg 
that  would,  at  the  word  of  its  master,  gather  the  sheep  to¬ 
gether  and  take  them  out  at  the  gate  in  the  shortest  time. 
Ewan,  then  newly  married,  was  there, and  beside  him  was  his 
child-wife.  Time  was  called,  and  Dan’s  turn  came  to  try 
the  mettle  of  his  Laddie.  The  dog  started  well,  and  in  two 
or  three  minutes  he  had  driven  the  whole  flock  save  two 
into  an  alcove  of  hurdles  close  to  where  Ewan  and  his 
wife  stood  together.  Then  at  the  word  of  his  master  Lad¬ 
die  set  off  over  the  field  for  the  stragglers,  and  Dan  shout¬ 
ed  to  Ewan  not  to  stir  a  hand  or  foot,  or  the  sheep  would 
be  scattered  again.  Now,  just  at  that  instant  who  should 
pop  over  the  hedge  but  Derry  in  his  muzzle,  and  quick  as 
thought  he  shot  down  his  head,  put  up  his  paws,  threw  off 
his  muzzle,  dashed  at  the  sheep,  snapped  at  their  legs,  and 
away  they  went  in  twenty  directions. 

Before  Ewan  had  time  to  cry  out  Derry  was  gone,  with 
his  muzzle  between  his  teeth.  When  Dan,  who  was  a 
perch  or  two  up  the  meadow,  turned  round  and  saw  what 
had  happened,  and  that  his  dog’s  chances  were  gone,  his 
anger  overcame  him,  and  he  turned  on  Ewan  with  a  tor¬ 
rent  of  reproaches. 

“  There — you’ve  done  it  with  your  lumbering — curse  it.” 

With  complete  self-possession  Ewan  explained  how  Der¬ 
ry  had  done  the  mischief. 

Then  Dan’s  face  was  darker  with  wrath  than  it  had  ever 
been  before. 

“  A  pretty  tale,”  he  said,  and  his  lip  curled  in  a  sneer.  * 
He  turned  to  the  people  around.  “  Anybody  see  the  dog 
slip  his  muzzle  ?” 

None  had  seen  what  Ewan  affirmed.  The  eyes  of  every¬ 
one  had  been  on  the  two  stragglers  in  the  distance  pursued 
by  Dan  and  Laddie. 

Now,  when  Ewan  saw  that  Dan  distrusted  him,  and  ap¬ 
pealed  to  strangers  as  witness  to  his  word,  his  face  flushed 
deep,  and  his  delicate  nostrils  quivered. 

“  A  pretty  tale,”  Dan  repeated,  and  he  was  twisting  on 
his  heel,  when  up  came  Derry  again,  his  muzzle  on  his 
snout,  whisking  his  tail,  and  frisking  about  Dan’s  feet  with 
an  expression  of  quite  lamb-like  simplicity. 

At  that  sight  Ewan’s  livid  face  turned  to  a  great  pallor, 
and  Dan  broke  into  a  hard  laugh. 

“  We’ve  heard  of  a  dog  slipping  his  muzzle,”  he  said, 

“  but  who  ever  heard  of  a  dog  putting  a  muzzle  on  again  ?  * 


70 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Then  Ewan  stepped  from  beside  his  girl-wife,  who  stood 
there  with  heaving  breast.  His  eyes  were  aflame,  but  for 
an  instant  he  conquered  his  emotion,  and  said,  with  a  con¬ 
strained  quietness,  but  with  a  deep  pathos  in  his  tone, 
“Dan,  do  you  think  I’ve  told  you  the  truth  ?” 

Dan  wheeled  about.  “  I  think  you’ve  told  me  a  lie,”  he 
said,  and  his  voice  came  thick  from  his  throat. 

All  heard  the  word,  and  all  held  their  breath.  Ewan 
stood  a  moment  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  his  pallid 
face  whitened  every  instant.  Then  he  fell  back,  and  took 
the  girl-wife  by  the  hand  and  turned  away  with  her,  his 
head  down,  his  very  heart  surging  itself  out  of  his  choking 
breast.  And,  as  he  passed  through  the  throng,  to  carry 
away  from  that  scene  the  madness  that  was  working  in  his 
brain,  he  overheard  the  mocking  comments  of  the  people. 
“  Aw,  well,  well,  did  ye  hear  that  now  ?— called  him  a  liar, 
and  not  a  word  to  say  agen  it.”  “A  liar  !  Och,  a  liar  ? 
and  him  a  parzon,  too!”  “Middling  chicken-hearted 
anyways — a  liar  !  Aw,  well,  well,  well !  ” 

At  that  Ewan  flung  away  the  hand  of  his  wife,  and, 
quivering  from  head  to  foot,  he  strode  toward  Dan. 

“You’ve  called  me  a  liar,”  he  said,  in  a  shrill  voice  that 
was  like  a  cry.  “  Now,  you  shall  prove  your  word — you 
shall  fight  me — you  shall,  by  God.” 

He  was  completely  carried  away  by  passion. 

“  The  parzon,  the  parzon  !  ”  “  Man  alive,  the  young 

parzon !  ”  the  people  muttered,  and  they  closed  around. 

Dan  stood  a  moment.  He  looked  down  from  his  great 
height  at  Ewan’s  quivering  form  and  distorted  face.  Then 
he  turned  about  and  glanced  into  the  faces  of  the  people. 
In  another  instant  his  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears  ;  he 
took  a  step  toward  Ewan,  flung  his  arms  about  him,  and 
buried  his  head  in  his  neck,  and  the  great  stalwart  lad 
wept  like  a  little  child.  In  another  moment  Ewan’s  pas¬ 
sion  was  melted  away,  and  he  kissed  Dan  on  the  cheek. 

“  Blubbering  cowards  !  ”  “  Aw,  blatherskites  !  ”  “  Och, . 
man  alive,  a  pair  of  turtle-doves  !  ”  .  j 

Dan  lifted  his  head  and  looked  around,  raised  himself 
to  his  full  height,  clenched  his  fists,  and  said  : 

“Now,  my  lads,  you  did  your  best  to  make  a  fight,  and 
you  couldn’t  manage  it.  I  won’t  fight  my  cousin,  and  he 
shan’t  fight  me  ;  but  if  there’s  a  man  among  you  would 
like  to  know  for  himself  how  much  of  a  coward  I  am,  let 
him  step  out — I’m  ready.” 

Not  a  man  budged  an  inch# 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


s  * 


CHAPTER  IX, 

THE  SERVICE  ON  THE  SHORE# 

It  was  the  spring  of  the  year  when  the  examining  chap¬ 
lain  gave  the  verdict  which  for  good  or  ill  put  Dan  out  of  the 
odor  of  sanctity.  Then  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 
eyes,  he  haunted  the  shore  where  old  Billy  and  his  mates 
were  spreading  their  nets  and  barking  them  in  preparation 
for  the  herring  season  that  was  soon  to  begin.  There  it 
was,  while  stretched  on  the  warm  shingle,  with  old  Billy 
Quilleash  sitting  near,  smoking  his  black  cutty  and  mend¬ 
ing  the  meshes  broken  by  the  dog-fish  of  last  year,  that 
Dan  hit  on  the  idea  of  a  new  course  in  life.  This  was 
nothing  better  or  worse  than  that  of  turning  fisherman. 
He  would  buy  a  smack  and  make  old  Billy  his  skipper ; 
he  would  follow  the  herrings  himself,  and  take  up  his  own 
share  and  the  share  of  the  boat.  It  would  be  delightful, 
and,  of  course,  it  would  be  vastly  profitable.  Everything 
looked  plain  and  straight  and  simple,  and  though  old  Billy 
more  than  half  shook  his  gray  head  at  the  project,  and  let 
fall  by  several  inches  his  tawny  face,  and  took  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  cleared  his  throat  noisily,  and  looked 
vacantly  out  to  sea,  and  gave  other  ominous  symptoms  ol 
grave  internal  dubitation,  Dan  leapt  to  his  feet  at  the  sud¬ 
den  access  of  new  purpose,  and  bowled  off  in  hot  haste  to 
tell  the  Bishop. 

The  Bishop  listened  in  silence  at  first,  and  with  a  sidelong 
look  out  at  the  window  up  to  the  heights  of  Slieu  Dhoo, 
and  when  Dan,  in  a  hang-dog  manner,  hinted  at  certain 
new-born  intentions  of  reform,  there  was  a  perceptible 
trembling  of  the  Bishop's  eyelids ;  and  when  he  gathered 
voice  and  pictured  the  vast  scheme  of  profit  without  loss, 
the  Bishop  turned  his  grave  eyes  slowly  upon  him,  and  then 
Dan's  own  eyes  suddenly  fell,  and  the  big  world  began  to 
shrivel  up  to  the  pitiful  dimensions  of  an  orange  with  the 
iuice  squeezed  out  of  it.  But  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  the 
Bishop  undertook  to  become  responsible  for  the  first  costs 
)f  the  boat,  and,  having  made  this  promise  with  the  air  of 
i  man  who  knows  too  well  that  he  is  pampering  the  whim 
)f  a  spoiled  boy,  he  turned  away  rather  suddenly,  with  his 
'bin  a  thought  deeper  than  ever  in  his  breast. 

What  hurry  and  bustle  ensued#  What  driving  away  to 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


north,  south,  east,  and  west,  to  every  fishing  port  in  the 
island  where  boats  were  built  or  sold  !  At  length  a  boat 
was  bought  on  the  chocks  at  Port  le  Mary,  a  thirty-tons' 
boat  of  lugger-build,  and  old  Billy  Quilleash  was  sent  south 
to  bring  it  up  through  the  Calf  Sound  to  the  harbor  at 
Peeltown. 

Then  there  was  the  getting  together  of  a  crew.  Of 
course  old  Billy  was  made  skipper.  He  had  sailed  twenty 
years  in  a  boat  of  Kinvig’s  with  three  nets  to  his  share,  and 
half  that  time  he  had  been  admiral  of  the  Peeltown  fleet 
of  herring  boats,  with  five  pounds  a  year  for  his  post  of 
honor.  In  Dan’s  boat  he  was  to  have  four  nets  by  his  own 
right,  and  one  for  his  nephew,  Davy  Fayle.  Davy  was  an 
orphan,  brought  up  by  Billy  Quilleash.  He  was  a  lad  of 
eighteen,  and  was  to  sail  as  boy.  There  were  other  four 
hands — Crennel,  the  cook  ;  Teare,  the  mate  ;  Corkell,  and 
Corlett. 

Early  and  late  Dan  was  down  at  the  harbor,  stripped  to 
the  woollen  shirt,  and  tackling  any  odd  job  of  painting  or 
carpentry,  for  the  opening  of  the  herring  season  was  hard 
upon  them.  But  he  found  time  to  run  up  to  the  new 
Ballamona  to  tell  Mona  that  she  was  to  christen  his  new 
boat,  for  it  had  not  been  named  when  it  left  the  chocks  ; 
and  then  to  the  old  Ballamona,  to  persuade  Ewan  to  go 
with  him  on  his  first  trip  to  the  herrings. 

The  day  appointed  by  custom  for  the  first  takings  of  the 
herring  came  quickly  round.  It  was  a  brilliant  day  in 
early  June.  Ewan  had  been  across  to  Slieu  Dhoo  to  visit 
his  father,  for  the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  more  than 
half  a  year  ago,  in  order  to  say  that  he  meant  to  go  out  for 
the  night’s  fishing  in  Dan's  new  boat,  and  to  beg  that  his 
young  wife,  who  was  just  then  in  delicate  health,  might  be, 
invited  to  spend  the  night  of  .  his  absence  with  Mona  at 
the  new  Ballamona.  The  Deemster  complied  with  a  grim 
grace  ;  Ewan's  young  wife  went  across  in  the  early  morn¬ 
ing,  and  in  the  afternoon  all  four,  the  Deemster  and  Mona; 
Ewan  and  his  wife,  set  off  in  a  lumbering,  springless  coacr 
— the  first  that  the  island  had  yet  seen— to  witness  the  de¬ 
parture  of  the  herring  fleet  from  Peeltown,  and  to  engage 
in  that  day's  ceremony.  .  ,  ..  , 

The  salt  breath  of  the  sea  was  in  the  air,  and  the  lign 
ripples  of  the  bay  glistened  through  a  drowsy  haze  of  warn 
sunshine.  It  was  to  be  high-water  at  six  o  clock.  Whei 
the  Deemster's  company  reached  Peeltown,  the  sun  wa 
ftiU  high  over  Contrary  Heac^  and  the  fishing  boats  in  th 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


73 


harbor,  to  the  number  of  two  hundred,  were  rolling  gent¬ 
ly,  with  their  brown  sails  half  set,  to  the  motion  of  the  ris¬ 
ing  tide. 

There  was  Dan  in  his  guernsey  on  the  deck  of  his  boat, 
and,  as  the  coach  drew  up  near  the  bottom  of  the  wooden 
pier,  he  lifted  his  red  cap  from  his  curly  head,  and  then 
went  on  to  tie  a  bottle  by  a  long  blue  ribbon  to  the  tiller. 
There  was  old  Billy  Quilleash  in  his  sea-boots,  and  there 
was  Davy  Fayle,  a  shambling  sort  of  lad,  long  rather  than 
tall,  with  fair  hair  tangled  over  his  forehead,  and  a  face 
which  had  a  simple,  vacant  look  that  came  of  a  lagging 
lower  lip.  Men  on  every  boat  in  the  harbor  were  washing 
the  decks,  or  bailing  out  the  dingy,  or  laying  down  the  nets 
below.  The  harbor-master  was  on  the  quay,  shouting  to 
this  boat  to  pull  up  or  to  that  one  to  lie  back.  And  down 
on  the  broad  sands  of  the  shore  wer«  men,  women,  and 
children  in  many  hundreds,  sitting  and  lying  and  lounging 
about  an  empty  boat  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom- that  lay 
high  and  dry  on  the  beach.  The  oid  fishing  town  itself 
had  lost  its  chill  and  cheerless  aspect,  and  no  longer  looked 
hungrily  out  over  miles  of  bleak  sea.  Its  blind  alleys  and 
dark  lanes,  its  narrow,  crabbed,  crooked  streets  were  bright 
with  little  flags  hung  out  of  the  little  stuffed-up  windows, 
and  yet  brighter  with  bright  faces  that  hurried  to  and 
fro. 

About  five  o'clock,  as  the  sun  was  dipping  seaward 
across  the  back  of  Contrary,  leaving  the  brown  sails  in 
the  harbor  in  shade,  and  glistening  red  on  the  sides  of  the 
cathedral  church  on  the  island-rock  that  stood  twenty 
yards  out  from  the  mainland,  there  was  a  movement  of 
the  people  on  the  shore  toward  the  town  behind  them, 
and  of  fisher-fellows  from  their  boats  toward  the  beach. 
Some  of  the  neighboring  clergy  had  come  down  to  Peel- 
town,  and  the  little  Deemster  sat  in  his  coach,  thrown 
open,  blinking  in  the  sun  under  his  shaggy  gray  eyebrows. 
But  someone  was  still  looked  for,  and  expectation  was 
plainly  evident  in  every  face  until  a  cheer  came  over  the 
tops  of  the  houses  from  the  market-place.  Then  there 
svas  a  general  rush  toward  the  mouth  of  the  quay,  and 
presently  there  came,  laboring  over  the  rough  cobbles  of 
the  tortuous  Castle  Street,  flanked  by  a  tumultuous  com 
pany  of  boys  and  men,  bare-headed  women,  and  children, 
who  halloed  and  waved  their  arms  and  tossed  up  their 
saps,  a  rough-coated  Manx  pony,  on  which  the  tall  figure 
»f  the  Bishop  sat* 


w 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


The  people  moved  on  with  the  Bishop  at  their  head  un* 
til  they  came  to  the  beach,  and  there,  at  the  disused  boat 
lying  dry  on  the  sand,  the  Bishop  alighted.  In  two  min¬ 
utes  more  every  fisherman  in  the  harbor  had  left  his  boat 
and  gathered  with  his  fellows  on  the  shore.  Then  there 
began  a  ceremony  of  infinite  pathos  and  grandeur. 

In  the  open  boat  the  pale-faced  Bishop  stood,  his  long 
hair,  sprinkled  with  gray,  lifted  gently  over  his  drooping 
shoulders  by  the  gentle  breeze  that  came  with  its  odor  of 
brine  from  the  sea.  Around  him,  on  their  knees  on  the 
sand,  were  the  tawny-faced,  weather-beaten  fishermen  in 
their  sea-boots  and  guernseys,  bare-headed,  and  fumbling 
their  soft  caps  in  their  hard  hands.  There,  on  the  outside, 
stood  the  multitude  of  men,  women,  and  young  children, 
and  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd  stood  the  coach  of  the 
Deemster,  and  it  was  half  encircled  by  the  pawing  horses 
of  some  of  the  black-coated  clergy. 

The  Bishop  began  the  service.  It  asked  for  the  blessing 
of  God  on  the  fishing  expedition  which  was  about  to  set 
out.  First  came  the  lesson,  “  And  God  said,  let  the  waters 
bring  forth  abundantly  and  then  the  story  of  Jesus  in 
the  ship,  when  there  arose  a  great  tempest  while  He  slept, 
and  His  disciples  awoke  Him,  and  He  arose  and  rebuked 
the  waves;  and  then  that  other  story  of  how  the  disciples 
toiled  all  night  and  took  nothing,  but  let  down  their  nets 
again  at  Christ’s  word,  and  there  came  a  great  multitude 
of  fishes,  and  their  nets  brake.  “  Restore  and  continue  to 
us  the  harvest  of  the  sea,”  prayed  the  Bishop,  with  his  face 
uplifted ;  and  the  men  on  thek*  knees  on  the  sand,  with 
uncovered  heads  and  faces  in  their  caps,  murmured  their 
responses  in  their  own  tongue,  “  Yn  Meailley.” 

And  while  they  prayed,  the  soft  boom  of  the  unruffled 
waters  on  the  shore,  and  the  sea’s  deep  murmur  from  away 
beyond  the  headland,  and  the  wild  jabbering  cries  of  a 
flight  of  sea-gulls  disporting  on  a  rock  in  the  bay,  were 
the  only  sounds  that  mingled  with  the  Bishop’s  deep  tones 
and  the  men’s  hoarse  voices. 

Last  of  all,  the  Bishop  gave  out  a  hymn.  It  was  a  simple 
old  hymn,  such  as  every  man  had  known  since  his  mother 
had  crooned  it  ever  his  cot.  The  men  rose  to  their  feet, 
and  their  lusty  voices  took  up  the  strain  ;  the  crowd  be¬ 
hind,  and  the  clergy  on  their  horses,  joined  it ;  and  from 
the  Deemster’s  coach  two  women’s  voices  took  it  up,  and 
higher,  higher,  higher,  like  a  lark,  it  floated  up,  until  the 
soft  boom  and  deep  murmur  of  the  sea  and  the  wild  cry  at 


THE  DEEMSTER, .  7$ 

the  sea-birds  were  drowned  in  the  broad  swell  of  the  sim¬ 
ple  old  sacred  song. 

The  sun  was  sinking  fast  through  a  red  haze  toward  the 
sea’s  verge,  and  the  tide  was  near  the  flood,  when  the  ser¬ 
vice  on  the  shore  ended,  and  the  fishermen  returned  to 
their  boats. 

Billy  Quilleash  leaped  aboard  the  new  lugger,  and  his 
four  men  followed  him.  “See  all  clear,”  he  shouted  to 
Davy  Fayle  ;  and  Davy  stood  on  the  quay  with  the  duty  of 
clearing  the  ropes  from  the  blocks,  and  then  following  in 
the  dingy  that  lay  moored  to  the  wooden  steps. 

Dan  had  gone  up  to  the  Deemster’s  coach  and  helped 
Mona  and  the  young  wife  of  Ewan  to  alight  He  led  them 
to  the  quay  steps,  and  when  the  company  had  gathered 
about,  and  all  was  made  ready,  he  shouted  to  old  Billy  to 
throw  him  the  bottle  that  lay  tied  by  the  blue  ribbon  to  the 
tiller.  Then  he  handed  the  bottle  to  Mona,  who  stood  on 
the  step,  a  few  feet  above  the  water’s  edge. 

Mona  was  looking  very  fresh  and  beautiful  that  day, 
with  a  delicious  joy  and  pride  in  her  deep  eyes.  Dan  was 
talking  to  her  with  an  awkward  sort  of  consciousness, 
looking  askance  at  his  big  brown  hands  when  they  came 
in  contact  with  her  dainty  white  fingers,  then  glancing 
down  at  his  great  clattering  boots,  and  up  into  her  soft, 
smooth  face. 

“  What  am  I  to  christen  her  ?  ”  said  Mona,  with  the  bot¬ 
tle  held  up  in  her  hand. 

“  Mona,”  answered  Dan,  with  a  shamefaced  look  and 
one  hand  in  his  brown  hair. 

“  No,  no,”  said  she,  “  not  that.” 

“  Then  what  you  like,”  said  Dan. 

“Well,  the  Ben-my-Chree,  said  Mona,  and  with  that 
the  bottle  broke  on  the  boat’s  side. 

In  another  instant  Ewan  was  kissing  his  meek  little  wife, 
and  bidding  her  good-by,  and  Dan,  in  a  fumbling  way, 
was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  demurely  shaking  Mona’s 
hand,  and  trying  hard  to  look  her  in  the  face. 

“Tail  on  there,”  shouted  Quilleash  from  the  lugger. 
Then  the  two  men  jumped  aboard,  Davy  Fayle  ran  the 
ropes  from  the  blocks,  the  admiral’s  boat  cleared  away  from 
the  quay,  and  the  admiral’s  flag  was  shot  up  to  the  mast¬ 
head.  The  other  boats  in  the  harbor  followed  one  by  one, 
and  soon  the  bay  was  full  of  the  fleet. 

As  the  Ben-my-Chree  stood  out  to  sea  beyond  the 
island-rock;  Dan  and  Ewan  stood  aft,  Dan  in  his  brown 


76 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


guernsey,  Ewan  in  his  black  coat ;  Ewan  waving  his  hand¬ 
kerchief,  and  Dan  his  cap  ;  old  Billy  was  at  the  tiller, 
Crennel,  the  cook,  had  his  head  just  above  the  hatchways, 
and  Davy  was  clambering  hand-over-hand  up  the  rope  by 
which  the  dingy  was  hauled  to  the  stern. 

Then  the  herring  fleet  sailed  away  under  the  glow  of  the 
6etting  sun. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  FIRST  NIGHT  WITH  THE  HERRINGS. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  a  smart  breeze  rose  off  the 
land  as  the  Ben-my-Chree,  with  the  fleet  behind  her, 
rounded  Contrary  Head,  and  crossed  the  two  streams  that 
flow  there.  For  an  hour  afterward  there  was  still  light 
enough  to  see  the  coast-line  curved  into  covelets  and  pro¬ 
montories,  and  to  look  for  miles  over  the  hills  with  their 
moles  of  gorse,  and  tussocks  of  lush  grass.  The  twilight 
deepened  as  the  fleet  rounded  Niarbyl  Point,  and  left  the 
islet  on  their  lee,  with  Cronk-ny-Irey-Lhaa  towering  into 
the  gloomy  sky.  When  they  sailed  across  Fleshwick  Bay 
the  night  gradually  darkened,  and  nothing  was  seen  of 
Ennyn  Mooar.  But  after  an  hour  of  darkness  the  heavens 
lightened  again,  and  glistened  with  stars,  and  when  old 
Billy  Quilleash  brought  his  boat  head  to  the  wind  in  six 
fathoms  of  water  outside  Fort  Erin,  the  moon  had  risen 
behind  Bradda,  and  the  rugged  headland  showed  clear 
against  the  sky.  One  after  another  the  boats  and  the  fleet 
brought  to  about  the  Ben-my-Chree. 

Dan  asked  old  Billy  if  he  had  found  the  herrings  on 
this  ground  at  the  same  time  in  former  seasons. 

“  Not  for  seven  years,”  said  the  old  man. 

“  Then  why  try  now  ?  ” 

Billy  stretched  out  his  hand  to  where  a  flight  of  sea¬ 
gulls  were  dipping  and  sailing  in  the  moonlight.  *'  See 
the  gull  there  ?  ”  he  said.  “  She’s  skipper  to-night ;  she’s 
showing  us  the  fish.” 

Davy  Fayle  had  been  leaning  over  the  bow,  rapping 
with  a  stick  at  the  timbers  near  the  water’s  edge. 

“Any  signs  ?”  shouted  Billy  Quilleash. 

u  Ay,”  said  Davy,  “the  mar-fire’s  risin’.” 

The  wind  had  dropped,  and  luminous  patches  of  phos- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


77 


phorescent  light  in  the  water  were  showing  that  the  her¬ 
rings  were  stirring. 

“  Let's  make  a  shot  ;  up  with  the  gear,"  said  Quilleash, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  shooting  the  nets  over  the 
quarter. 

“  Ned  Teare,  you  see  to  the  line.  Crennel,  look  after 
the  corks.  Davy — where’s  that  lad  ? — look  to  the  seizings, 
d'ye  hear  ?  "  ^ 

Then  the  nets  were  hauled  from  below,  and  passed  over 
a  bank-board  placed  between  the  hatchway  and  the  top  of 
the  bulwark.  Teare  and  Crennel  shot  the  gear,  and  as  the 
seizings  came  up,  Davy  ran  aft  with  them,  and  made  them 
fast  to  the  warp  near  the  taffrail. 

When  the  nets  were  all  paid  out,  every  net  in  the  drift 
being  tied  to  the  next,  and  a  solid  wall  of  meshes  nine  feet 
deep  had  been  swept  away  along  the  sea  for  half  a  mile 
behind  them,  Quilleash  shouted,  “  Down  with  the  sheets." 

The  ropes  were  hauled,  the  sails  were  taken  in,  the 
mainmast — which  was  so  made  as  to  lower  backward — 
was  dropped,  and  only  the  drift-mizzen  was  left,  and  that 
was  to  keep  the  boat  head  on  to  the  wind. 

u  Up  with  the  light  there,"  said  Quilleash. 

At  this  word  Davy  Fayle  popped  his  head  out  of  the 
hatchways. 

“Aw,  to  be  sure,  that  lad's  never  ready.  Get  out  of 
that,  quick." 

Davy  jumped  on  deck,  took  a  lantern,  and  fixed  it  to  the 
top  of  the  mitch  board.  Then  vessel  and  nets  drifted  to¬ 
gether,  and  Dan  and  Ewan,  who  had  kept  the  deck  until 
now,  went  below  together. 

It  was  now  a  calm,  clear  night,  with  just  light  enough 
to  show  two  or  three  of  the  buoys  on  the  back  of  the 
net  nearest  to  the  boat,  as  they  floated  under  water.  Old 
Billy  had  not  mistaken  his  ground.  Large  white  patches 
came  moving  out  of  the  surrounding  pavement  of  deep 
black,  lightened  only  by  the  image  of  a  star  where  the 
vanishing  ripples  left  the  dark  sea  smooth.  Once  or  twice 
countless  faint  popping  sounds  were  to  be  heard,  and 
minute  points  of  shooting  silver  were  to  be  seen  on  the 
water  around.  The  herrings  were  at  play,  and  shoals  on 
shoals  soon  broke  the  black  sea  into  a  glistening  foam. 

But  no  “strike"  was  made,  and  after  an  hour's  time 
Dan  popped  his  head  over  the  hatchways  and  asked  the 
skipper  to  try  the  “  look-on  "  net.  The  warp  was  hauled 
in  until  the  first  net  was  reached.  It  came  up  as  black  as 


7* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


coal,  save  for  a  dog-fish  or  two  that  had  broken  a  mesh 
here  and  there. 

“Too  much  moon  to-night, ”  said  Quilieash  ;  “they  see 
the  nets,  and  ’cute  they  are  extraordinary.” 

But  half  an  hour  later  the  moon  went  out  behind  a 
thick  ridge  of  cloud  that  floated  over  the  land ;  the  sky 
became  gray  and  leaden,  and  a  rising  breeze  ruffled  the 
sea.  Then  hour  after  hour  wore  on,  and  not  a  fish  came 
to  the  look-on  net.  Toward  one  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
the  moon  broke  out  again.  “  There’ll  be  a  heavy  strike 
now,”  said  Quilieash,  and  in  another  instant  a  luminous 
patch  floated  across  the  line  of  the  nets,  sank,  disappeared, 
and  finally  pulled  three  of  the  buoys  down  with  them. 

“  Pull  up  now,”  shouted  Quilieash,  in  another  tone. 

Then  the  nets  were  hauled.  Davy,  the  boy,  led  the 
warp  through  a  snatch-block  fixed  to  the  mast-hole  on  to 
the  capstan.  Ned  Teare  disconnected  the  nets  from  the 
warps,  and  Crennel  and  Corlett  pulled  the  nets  over  the 
gunwale.  They  came  up  silver-white  in  the  moonlight,  a 
solid  block  of  fish.  Billy  Quilieash  and  Dan  passed  them 
over  the  scudding-pole  and  shook  the  herrings  into  the 
hold. 

“  Five  maze  at  least,”  said  Quilieash,  with  a  chuckle  of 
satisfaction.  “  Try  again.”  And  once  more  the  nets  were 
shot.  The  other  boats  of  the  fleet  were  signalled,  by  a  blue 
light  run  up  the  drift-mizzen,  that  the  Ben-my-Chree 
had  struck  a  scaleiof  fish.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  blue 
light  was  answered  by  other  blue  lights  on  every  side,  and 
these  reported  that  the  fishery  was  everywhere  faring 
well.  % 

One,  two,  three  o’clock  came  and  went.  The  night  was 
wearing  on  ;  the  moon  went  out  once  more,  and  in  the 
darkness  which  preceded  the  dawn  the  lanterns  burning  on 
the  fleet  of  drifting  boats  gave  out  an  eerie  glow  across 
the  waters  that  lay  black  and  flat  around.  The  gray  light 
came  at  length  in  the  east,  and  the  sun  rose  over  the  land. 
Then  the  nets  were  hauled  in  for  the  last  time  and  that 
night’s  fishing  was  done.  The  mast  was  lifted,  but  before 
the  boat  was  brought  about  the  skipper  shouted,  “Men,  let 
us  do  as  we’re  used  of,”  and  instantly  the  admiral’s  flag 
was  run  up  to  the  masthead,  and  at  this  sign  the  men 
dropped  on  one  knee,  with  their  faces  in  their  caps,  and 
old  Billy  offered  up  a  short  and  simple  prayer  of  thanks 
for  the  blessings  of  the  sea. 

When  this  was  done  every  man  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  all 


;  HE  DEEMSTER.  79 

was  work,  bustle,  shouting,  singing  out,  and  some  lusty 

curses. 

“  Tumble  up  the  sheets — bear  a  hand  there — d - the 

lad,”  bawled  Quilleash ;  “get  out  of  the  way,  or  I’ll  make 
you  walk  handsome  over  the  bricks.” 

In  five  minutes  more  the  Ben-my-Chree,  with  the  her¬ 
ring  fleet  behind  her,  was  running  home  before  a  stiff 
breeze. 

“  Nine  maze — not  bad  for  the  first  night,”  said  Dan  to 
Ewan. 

“Souse  them  well,”  said  Quilleash,  and  Ned  Teare 
sprinkled  salt  on  the  herrings  as  they  lay  in  the  hold. 

Crennel,  the  cook,  better  known  as  the  slushy,  came  up 
the  hatchways  with  a  huge  saucepan,  which  he  filled  with 
the  fish.  As  he  did  so  there  was  a  faint  “  cheep,  cheep  ” 
from  below — the  herrings  were  still  alive. 

All  hands  went  down  for  a  smoke  except  Corlett,  who 
stood  at  the  tiller,  Davy,  who,  counted  for  nobody  and 
stretched  himself  out  at  the  bow,  and  Ewan.  The  young 
parson,  who  had  been  taking  note  of  the  lad  during  the 
night,  now  seated  himself  on  a  coil  of  rope  near  where 
Davy  lay.  The  “  cheep,  cheep  ”  was  the  only  sound  in  the 
air  except  the  plash  of  the  waters  at  the  boat’s  bow,  and 
with  an  inclination  of  the  head  in  the  direction  of  the  fish 
in  the  hold,  Ewan  said,  “  It  seems  cruel,  Davy,  doesn’t 
it?” 

“Cruel?  Well,  pozzible,  pozzible.  Och,  ’deed  now, 
they’ve  got  their  feelings  same  as  anybody  else.” 

The  parson  had  taken  the  lad’s  measure  at  a  glance. 

“You  should  see  the  shoals  of  them  lying  round  the 
nets,  watching  the  others — their  mothers  and  sisters,  as  you 
might  say — who’ve  got  their  gills  ’tangled.  And  when 
you  haul  the  net  up,  away  they  go  at  a  slant  in  millions 
and  millions,  just  the  same  as  lightning  going  through  the 
water.  Och,  yes,  yes,  leave  them  alone  for  having  their 
feelings.” 

“  It  does  seem  cruel,  Davy,  eh  ?  ”. 

Davy  looked  puzzled  ;  he  was  reasoning  out  a  grave 
problem. 

“Well,  sir,  that’s  the  mortal  strange  part  of  it.  It  does 
look  cruel  to  catch  them,  sarten  sure  ;  but  then  the  her¬ 
rings  themselves  catch  the  sand-eels,  and  the  cod  catch  the 
herring,  and  the  porpoises  and  grampuses  catch  the  cod.” 

Ewen  did  his  best  to  look  astonished. 

“Aw,  that’s  the  truth,  sir.  It’s  terrible,  wonderfuV 


So 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


strange,  but  I  suppose  it’s  all  nathur.  You  see,  sir,  we  do 
the  same  ourselves.0 

“  How  do  you  mean,  Davy  ?  We  don't  eat  each  other,  I 
hope,"  said  the  young  parson. 

“  Och,  don’t  we,  though  ?  Lave  us  alone  for  that." 

Ewan  tried  to  look  appalled. 

“  Well,  of  coorse,  not  to  say  ate,  not  ’xactly  ate ;  but  the 
biggest  chap  allis  rigs  the  rest ;  and  the  next  biggest  chap 
allis  rigs  a  littler  one,  you  know,  and  the  littlest  chap,  he 
gets  rigged  by  everybody  all  round,  doesn’t  he,  sir?" 

Davy  had  got  a  grip  of  the  knotty  problem,  but  the  lad's 
poor,  simple  face  looked  sadly  burdened,  and  he  came 
back  to  his  old  word. 

“  Seems  to  me  it  must  he  all  nathur,  sir." 

Ewan  began  to  feel  some  touch  of  shame  at  playing  with 
this  simple,  earnest,  big  little  heart.  “  So  you  think  it  all 
nature,  Davy  ?  ”  he  said,  with  a  lump  gathering  in  his 
throat. 

“Well,  well,  I  do,  you  know,  sir-;  it  does  make  a  fellow 
fit  to  cry  a  bit,  somehow  ;  \\ut  it  must  be  nathur,  sir." 

And  Davy  took  off  his  blue  worsted  cap  and  fumbled  it 
and  gave  his  troubled  young  head  a  grave  shake. 

Then  there  was  some  general  talk  about  Davy’s  early 
history.  Davy’s  father  had  been  pressed  into  the  army 
before  Davy  was  born,  and  had  afterward  been  no  more 
heard  of ;  then  his  mother  had  died,  and  Billy  Quilleash, 
being  his  mother’s  elder  brother,  had  brought  him  up. 
Davy  had  always  sailed  as  boy  with  Uncle  Billy,  he  was 
sailing  as  boy  then,  and  that  was  to  the  end  that  Uncle 
Billy  might  draw  his  share,  but  the  young  master  (Mastha 
Dan)  had  spoken  up  for  him,  so  he  had,  and  he  knew 
middlin’  well  what  that  would  come  to.  “  ‘  He’s  a  tidy  lump 
of  a  lad  now,’  says  Mastha  Dan,  ‘and  he’s  well  used  of 
the  boats,  too,’  says  he,  ‘  and  if  he  does  well  this  time,’ 
he  says,  ‘  he  must  sail  man  for  himself  next  season.’  Aw, 
yes,  sir,  that  was  what  Mastha  Dan  said.” 

It  was  clear  that  Dan  was  the  boy’s  hero.  When  Dan 
was  mentioned  that  lagging  lip  gave  a  yearning  look  to 
Davy’s  simple  face.  Dan’s  doubtful  exploits  and  his  du¬ 
bious  triumphs  all  looked  glorious  in  Davy’s  eyes.  Davy 
had  watched  Dan,  and  listened  to  him,  and  though  Dan 
might  know  nothing  of  his  silent  worship,  every'word  that 
Dan  had  spoken  to  him  had  been  hoarded  up  in  the  lad’s 
heart  like  treasure.  Davy  had  the  dog’s  soul,  and  Dan 
was  his  master. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


81 


“  Uncle  Billy  and  him’s  same  as  brothers,”  said  Davy* 
“and  Uncle  Billy’s  uncommon  proud  of  the  young  mas¬ 
ter,  and  middlin’  jealous,  too.  Aw,  well  /  who’s  wonder¬ 
ing  at  it  ?  ” 

Just  then  Crennel,  the  cook,  came  up  to  say  that  break¬ 
fast  was  ready,  and  Ewan  and  Davy  went  below,  the  young 
parson’s  hand  resting  on  the  boy’s  shoulder.  In  the  cabin 
Dan  was  sitting  by  the  stove,  laughing  immoderately. 
Ewan  saw  at  a  glance  that  Dan  had  been  drinking,  and  he 
forthwith  elbowed  his  way  to  Dan’s  side  and  lifted  a 
brandy  bottle  from  the  stove-top  into  the  locker,  under 
pretence  of  finding  a  place  for  his  hat.  Then  all  hands 
sat  down  to  the  table.  There  was  a  huge  dish  of  potatoes 
boiled  in  their  jackets,  and  a  similar  dish  of  herrings. 
Every  man  dipped  into  the  dishes  with  his  hands,  lifted 
his  herring  on  to  his  plate,  ran  his  fingers  from  tail  to 
head,  swept  all  the  flesh  off  the  fresh  fish,  and  threw  the 
bare  backbone  into  the  crock  that  stood  behind. 

“  Keep  a  corner  for  the  Meailley  at  the  ‘Three  Legs,’  ” 
said  Dan. 

There  was  to  be  a  herring  breakfast  that  morning  at  the 
“  Three  Legs  of  Man,”  to  celebrate  the  opening  of  the 
fishing  season. 

“You’ll  come,  Ewan,  eh  ?” 

The  young  parson  shook  his  head. 

Dan  was  in  great  spirits,  to  which  the  spirits  he  had 
imbibed  contributed  a  more  than  common  share.  Ewan 
saw  the  too  familiar  light  of  dangerous  mischief  dancing 
in  Dan’s  eyes,  and  made  twenty  attempts  to  keep  the  con¬ 
versation  within  ordinary  bounds  of  seriousness.  But  Dan 
was  not  to  be  restrained,  and  breaking  away  into  the 
homespun— a  sure  indication  that  the  old  Adam  was  hav¬ 
ing  the  upper  hand — he  forthwith  plunged  into  some  chaff 
that  was  started  by  the  mate,  Ned  Teare,  at  Davy  Fayle’s 
expense. 

“Aw,  ye  wouldn't  think  it’s  true,  would  ye,  now  ?”  said 
Ned,  with  a  wink  at  Dan  and  a  “glime”  at  Davy. 

“  And  what’s  that  ?  ”  said  Dan,  with  another  “glime  ”  at 
the  lad. 

“Why,  that  the  like  o’  yander  is  tackin'  round  the 
gels.” 

“D’ye  raely  mane  it  ?”  said  Dan,  dropping  his  herring 
and  lifting  his  eyes. 

Ewan  coughed  with  some  volume,  and  said,  “There, 
there,  Dan— there,  there.” 


82 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


“  Yes,  though,  and  sniffin'  and  snuffin’  abaft  of  them  as» 
tonishin’,”  Ned  Teare  put  it  again. 

“Aw,  well,  well,  well/'  said  Dan,  turning  up  afresh  v.he 
whites  of  his  eyes. 

There  was  not  a  sign  from  Davy ;  he  broke  his  potato 
more  carefully,  and  took  both  hands  and  both  eyes  to  strip 
away  its  jacket.  %  - 

“  Yes,  yes,  the  craythur’s  doing  somethin’  in  the  spooney 
line,”  said  Billy  Quilleash  ;  “  him  as  hasn’t  the  hayseed  out 
of  his  hair  yet.” 

“Aw,  well,”  said  Dan,  pretending  to  come  to  Davy’s  re* 
iief,  “  it  isn’t  raisonable  but  the  lad  should  be  coortin’  some 
gel  now.” 

“  What’s  that  ?  ”  shouted  Quilleash,  dropping  the  banter 
rather  suddenly.  “What,  and  not  a  farthing  at  him  ?  And 
owin’  me  fortune  for  the  bringin’  up.” 

“No  matter,  Billy,”  said  Dan,  “and  don’t  ride  a  man 
down  like  a  main-tack.  One  of  these  fine  mornings  Davy 
will  be  payin’  his  debt  to  you  with  the  foretopsail.” 

Davy’s  eyes  w^ere  held  very  low,  but  it  was  not  hard  to 
see  that  they  were  beginning  to  fill. 

“  That  will  do,  Dan,  that  will  do,”  said  Ewan.  The  young 
parson’s  face  had  grown  suddenly  pale,  but  Dan  saw  noth¬ 
ing  of  that. 

“And  look  at  him  there,”  said  Dan,  reaching  round 
Ewan  to  prod  Davy  in  the  ribs — “look  at  him  there,  pre¬ 
tendin’  he  never  knows  nothin’.” 

The  big  tears  were  near  to  toppling  out  of  Davy’s  eyes. 
He  could  have  borne  the  chaff  from  anyone  but  Dan. 

“Dan,”  said  Ewan,  with  a  constrained  quietness,  “stop 
it;  I  can’t  stand  it  much  longer.” 

At  that  Davy  got  up  from  the  table,  leaving  his  unfirb- 
ished  breakfast,  and  began  to  climb  the  hatchways. 

“Aw,  now,  look  at  that,”  said  Dan,  with  affected  solem¬ 
nity,  and  so  saying,  and  not  heeding  the  change  in  Ewan’s 
manner,  Dan  got  up  too  and  followed  Davy  out,  put  an 
arm  round  the  lad’s  waist,  and  tried  to  draw  him  back. 
“  Don’t  mind  the  loblolly-boys,  Davy  veg,”  he  said,  coax- 
ingly,  Davy  pushed  him  away  with  an  angry  word. 

“  What’s  that  he’s  after  saying  ?  ”  asked  Quilleash. 

“  Nothin’  ;  he  only  cussed  a  bit,”  said  Dan. 

“  Cussed, "did  he  ?  He'd  better  show  a  leg  if  he  don’t 
want  the  rat’s  tail.” 

Then  Ewan  rose  from  the  table,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
and  his  pale  face  quivered# 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


41  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,”  he  «said  in  a  tense,  tremulous 
voice,  “  there’s  not  a  man  among  you.  You’re  a  lot  oi 
skulking  cowards.” 

At  that  he  was  making  for  the  deck  ;  but  Dan,  whose 
face,  full  of  the  fire  of  the  liquor  he  had  taken,  grew  in  o\ie 
moment  old  and  ugly,  leaped  to  his  feet  in  a  tempest  of 
wrath,  overturned  his  stool,  and  rushed  at  Ewan  with  e}’es 
aflame  and  uplifted  hand,  and  suddenly,  instantly,  like  a 
flash,  his  fist  fell,  and  Ewan  rolled  on  the  floor. 

Then  the  men  jumped  up  and  crowded  round  in  con¬ 
fusion.  “  The  parzon !  the  parzon !  God  preserve  me, 
the  parzon  !  ” 

There  stood  Dan,  with  a^ghastly  countenance,  white 
and  convulsed,  and  there  at  his  feet  lay  Ewan. 

“  God  A’mighty  !  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan,”  cried 
Davy.  Before  the  men  had  found  time  to  breathe,  Davy 
had  leaped  back  from  the  deck  to  the  cockpit,  and  had 
lifted  Ewan’s  head  on  to  his  knee. 

Ewan  drew  a  long  breath  and  opened  his  eyes.  He  was 
bleeding  from  a  gash  above  the  temple,  having  fallen 
among  some  refuse  of  iron  chain.  Davy,  still  moaning 
piteously,  “  Oh,  Mastha  Dan,  God  A’mighty,  Mastha  Dan,” 
took  a  white  handkerchief  from  Ewan’s  breast,  and  bound 
it  about  his  head  over  the  wound.  The  blo^d  oozed 
through  and  stained  the  handkerchief. 

<£wan  rose  to  his  feet  pale  and  trembling,  and  without 
looking  at  anyone,  steadied  himself  by  Davy’s  shoulder, 
and  clambered  weakly  to  the  deck.  There  he  stumbled 
forward,  sat  down  on  the  coil  of  rope  that  had  been  his 
seat  before,  and  buried  his  uncovered  head  in  his  breast. 

The  sun  had  now  risen  above  Contrary,  and  the  fair 
young^morning  light  danced  over  the  rippling  waters  far 
and  near.  A  fresh  breeze  blew  from  the  land,  and  the 
boats  of  the  fleet  around  and  about  scudded  on  before 
the  wind  like  a  flight  of  happy  birds,  wrth  outspread 
wings. 

The  Ben-my-Chree  was  then  rounding  *he  head,  and 
the  smoke  was  beginning  to  coil  up  in  many  a  slender 
shaft  above  the  chimneys  of  the  little  town  of  Peel.  But 
Ewan  saw  nothing  of  this  ;  with  head  on  his  breast,  and 
his  heart  cold  within  him,  he  sat  at  the  bow. 

Down  below,  Dan  was  then  doing  his  best  to  make  him¬ 
self  believe  that  he  was  unconcerned.  He  whistled  a 
little,  and  sung  a  little,  and  laughed  a  good  deal ;  but  the 
whistle  lost  its  tune,  and  the  song  stopped  short,  and  the 


84 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


laugh  was  loud  and  empty.  When  he  first  saw  Ewan  lie 
where  he  fell,  all  the  fire  of  his  evil  passion  seemed  to  die 
away,  and  for  the  instant  his  heart  seemed  to  choke  him, 
and  he  was  prompted  to  drop  down  and  lift  Ewan  to  his 
feet ;  but  at  that  moment  his  stubborn  knees  would  not 
bend,  and  at  the  next  moment  the  angel  of  God  troubled 
the  waters  of  his  heart  no  more.  Then  the  fisher-fellows 
overcame  their  amazement,  and  began  to  crow,  and  to  side 
with  him,  and  to  talk  of  his  pluck,  and  what  not. 

“  The  parzons — och,  the  parzons — they  think  they  may 
ride  a  man  down  for  half  a  word  inside  his  gills.” 

Cowards' — och,  ‘skulking  cowards/  if  you  plaize — 
right  sarved,  say  I !  ”  ^ 

Dan  tramped  about  the  cabin  restlessly,  and  sometimes 
chuckled  aloud  and  asked  himself  what  did  he  care,  and 
then  laughed  noisily,  and  sat  down  to  smoke,  and  presently 
jumped  up,  threw  the  pipe  into  the  open  stove,  and  took 
the  brandy  bottle  out  of  the  locker.  Where  was  Ewan  ? 
What  was  he  doing  ?  What  was  he  looking  like  ?  Dan 
would  rather  have  died  than  humbled  himself  to  ask  ;  but 
would  none  of  these  grinning  boobies  tell  him  ?  When 
Teare,  the  mate,  tame  down  from  the  deck  and  said  that 
sarten  sure  the  young  parzon  was  afther  sayin’  his  prayers 
up  forrard  Dan’s  eyes  flashed  again,  and  he  had  almost 
lifted  his  hand  to  fell  the  sniggering  waistrel.  He  drank 
half  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and  protested  afresh,  though 
none  had  yet  disputed  it,  that  he  cared  nothing,  not  he,  let 
them  say  what  they  liked  to  the  contrary. 

In  fifteen  minutes  from  the  time  of  the  quarrel  the  fleet 
was  running  into  harbor.  Dan  had  leaped  on  deck  just 
as  the  Ben-my-Chree  touched  the  two  streams  outside 
Contrary.  He  first  looked  forward,  and  saw  Ewan  sitting 
on  the  cable  in  the  bow  with  his  eyes  shut  and  his  pallid 
face  sunk  deep  in  his  breast.  Then  a  strange,  wild  light 
shot  into  Dan’s  eyes,  and  he  reeled  aft  and  plucked  the  til¬ 
ler  from  the  hand  of  Corlett,  and  set  it  hard-aport,  and 
drove  the  boat  head  on  for  the  narrow  neck  of  water  that 
flowed  between  the  mainland  and  the  island-rock  on  which 
the  old  castle  stood. 

il  Hould  hard,”  shouted  old  Billy  Quilleash,  “there’s 
not  water  enough  for  the  like  o’  that — you’ll  run  her  on 
the  rocks.” 

Then  Dan  laughed  wildly,  and  his  voice  rang  among  the 
Coves  and  cave's  of  the  coast. 

“Here's  for  the  harbor  or — hell,”  he  screamed,  and 


THE  DEEMSTER.  8$ 

then  another  wild  peal  of  his  mad  laughter  rang  in  the  air 
and  echoed  from  the  land. 

“  What’s  agate  of  the  young  mastha  ?  ”  the  men  mut¬ 
tered  one  to  another  ;  and  with  eyes  of  fear  they  stood 
stock-still  on  the  deck  and  saw  themselves  driven  on  tow¬ 
ard  the  shoals  of  the  little  sound. 

In  two  minutes  more  they  breathed  freely.  The  Ben- 
my-Chree  had  shot  like  an  arrow  through  the  belt  of  water 
and  was  putting  about  in  the  harbor. 

Dan  dropped  the  tiller,  reeled  along  the  deck,  scarcely 
able  to  bear  himself  erect,  and  stumbled  under  the  hatch¬ 
ways.  Old  Billy  brought  up  the  boat  to  its  moorings. 

“  Come,  lay  down,  d’ye  hear  ?  Where’s  that  lad  ?  ” 

Davy  was  standing  by  the  young  parson. 

“  You  idiot  waistrel,  why  d’ye  stand  prating  there  ?  I’ll 
pay  you,  you  beachcomber.” 

The  skipper  was  making  for  Davy,  when  Ewan  got  up, 
stepped  toward  him,  looked  him  hard  in  the  face,  seemed 
about  to  speak,  checked  himself,  and  turned  away. 

Old  Billy  broke  into  a  bitter  little  laugh,  and  said,  “  I’m 
right  up  and  down  like  a  yard  o’  pump-water,  that’s  what 
I  am.” 

The  boat  was  now  at  the  quay-side,  and  Ewan  leaped 
ashore.  Without  a  word  or  a  look  more,  he  walked  away, 
the  white  handkerchief,  clotted  with  blood,  still  about  his 
forehead,  and  his  hat  carried  in  his  hand. 

On  the  quay  there  were  numbers  of  women  with  baskets 
waiting  to  buy  the  fish.  Teare,  the  mate,  and  Crennel,  the 
cook,  counted  the  herrings  and  sold  them.  The  rest  of  the 
crew  stepped  ashore. 

Dan  went  away  with  the  rest.  His  face  was  livid  in 
the  soft  morning  sunlight.  He  was  still  keeping  up  his 
brave  outside,  while  the  madness  was  growing  every 
moment  fiercer  within.  As  he  stumbled  along  the  paved 
way  with  an  unsteady  step  his  hollow  laugh  grated  on  the 
quiet  air. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  HERRING  BREAKFAST, 

It  was  between  four  o’clock  and  five  when  the  fleet  ran 
into  Peeltown  harbor  after  the  first  night  of  the  herring 
season,  and  toward  eight  the  fisher-fellows,  to  the  number 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

of  fifty  at  least,  had  gathered  for  their  customary  first 
breakfast  in  the  kitchen  of  the  “  Three  Legs  of  Man.’' 
What  sport !  What  noisy  laughter !  What  singing  and 
rollicking  cheers  !  The  men  stood  neither  on  the  order 
of  their  coming  nor  their  going,  their  sitting  nor  their 
standing.  In  they  trooped  in  their  woollen  caps  or  their 
broad  sou’westers,  their  oilskins  or  their  long  sea-boots 
swung  across  their  arms.  They  wore  their  caps  or  not  as 
pleased  them,  they  sung  or  talked  as  suited  them,  they 
laughed  or  sneezed,  they  sulked  or  snarled,  they  were 
noisy  or  silent,  precisely  as  the  whim  of  the  individual 
prescribed,  the  individual  rule  of  manners.  Rather  later 
than  the  rest  Dan  Mylrea  came  swinging  in,  with  a  loud 
laugh  and  a  shout,  and  something  like  an  oath,  too,  and 
the  broad  homespun  on  his  lips. 

“  Billy  Quilleash — I  say,  Billy,  there — why  don't  you  put 
up  the  young  mastha  for  the  chair  ?” 

“Aw,  lave  me  alone,”  answered  Billy  Quilleash,  wkh  a 
contemptuous  toss  of  the  head. 

“  Uncle  Billy’s  proud  uncommon  of  the  mastha,”  whis¬ 
pered  Davy  Fayle,  who  sat  meekly  on  a  form  near  the  door, 
to  the  man  who  sat  cross-legged  on  the  form  beside  him. 

“  It’s  a  bit  free  them  chaps  is  making,”  said  old  Billy? 
in  a  confidential  undertone  to  Dan,  who  was  stretching 
himself  out  on  the  settle.  Then  rising  to  his  feet  with 
gravity,  “GenTmen,”  said  Quilleash,  “what  d’ye  s*iy  now 
to  Mistha  Dan’l  Mylrea  for  the  elber-cheer  yander  ?” 

At  that  there  was  the  response  of  loud  raps  on  the  table 
with  the  heels  of  the  long  boots  swung  over  various  arms, 
and  with  several  clay  pipes  that  lost  their  heads  in  the  en¬ 
counter.  Old  Billy  resumed  his  seat  with  a  lofty  glance 
of  patronage  at  the  men  about  him,  which  said  as  plainly 
as  words  themselves,  “  I  tould  ye  to  lave  it  all  to  me.” 

“  Proud,  d’ye  say  ?  Look  at  him,”  muttered  the  fisher¬ 
man  sitting  by  Davy  Fayle. 

Dan  staggered  up,  and  shouldered  his  way  to  the  elbow- 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table.  He  had  no  sooner  taken 
his  seat  than  he  shouted  for  the  breakfast,  and  without 
more  ado  the  breakfast  was  lifted,  direct  on  to  the  table 
from  the  pans  and  boilers  that  simmered  on  the  hearth. 

First  came  the  broth,  well  loaded  with  barley  and  cab¬ 
bage  ;  then  suet  puddings  ;  and  last  of  all  the  frying-pan 
was  taken  down  from  the  wall,  and  four  or  five  dozen  of 
fresh  herrings  were  made  to  grizzle  and  crackle  and  sput¬ 
ter  over  the  fire. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


* 7 


Dan  ate  ravenously,  and  laughed  noisily,  and  talked  in- 
cessantly  as  he  ate.  The  men  at  first  caught  the  contagion 
of  his  boisterous  manners,  but  after  a  time  they  shook 
their  tousled  heads  and  laid  them  together  in  gravity,  and 
began  to  repeat  in  whispers,  “  What’s  agate  of  the  young 
mastha,  at  all,  at  all  ?  ” 

Away  went  the  dishes,  away  went  the  cloth,  an  oil-lamp 
with  its  open  mouth — a  relic  of  some  monkish  sanctuary 
of  the  Middle  Ages — was  lifted  from  the  mantle-shelf  and 
put  on  the  table  for  the  receipt  of  custom  ;  a  brass  censer, 
choked  with  spills,  was  placed  beside  it  ;  pipes  emerged 
from  waistcoat-pockets,  and  pots  of  liquor,  with  glasses 
and  bottles,  came  in  from  the  outer  bar. 

“  Is  it  heavy  on  the  liquor  you’re  going  to  be,  Billy  ?  ” 
said  Ned,  the  mate  ;  and  old  Billy  replied  with  a  superior 
smile  and  the  lifting  up  of  a  whiskey  bottle,  from  which 
he  had  just  drawn  the  cork. 

Then  came  the  toasts.  The  chairman  arose  amid  hip, 
hip,  hooran  !  and  gave  “  Life  to  man  and  death  to  fish  !  ” 
and  Quilleash  gave  “  Death  to  the  head  that  never  wore 
hair  !  ” 

Then  came  more  noise  and  more  liquor,  and  a  good  deal 
of  both  in  the  vicinity  of  the  chair.  Dan  struck  up  a  song. 
He  sung  “  Drink  to  me  only,”  and  the  noisy  company  were 
at  first  hushed  to  silence  and  then  melted  to  audible  sobs. 

“Aw,  man,  the  voice  he  has,  anyway  !  ” 

“And  the  loud  it  is,  and  the  tender,  too,  and  the  way  he 
sliddets  up  and  down,  and  no  squeaks  and  jumps.” 

“No,  no;  nothin’  like  squeezin’  a  tune  out  of  an  ould 
sow  by  pulling  the  tail  at  her.” 

Old  Billy  listened  to  this  dialogue  among  the  fisher-fel¬ 
lows  about  him,  and  smiled  loftily.  “  It’s  nothin’,”  he  said, 
condescendingly — “that’s  nothin’.  You  should  hear  him 
out  in  the  boat,  when  we’re  lying  at  anchor,  and  me  and 
him  together,  and  the  stars  just  makin’  a  peep,  and  the 
moon,  and  the  mar-fire,  and  all  to  that,  and  me  and  him  ly¬ 
ing  aft  and  smookin’,  and  having  a  glass  maybe,  but  noth¬ 
in’  to  do  no  harm— -that’s  the  when  you  should  hear  him. 
Aw,  man  alive,  him  and  me’s  same  as  brothers.” 

“  More  liquor  there,”  shouted  Dan,  climbing  with  diffi¬ 
culty  to  his  feet. 

“  Ay,  look  here.  D’ye  hear,  down  yander  ?  Give  us  a 
swipe  o’  them  speerits.  Right.  More  liquor  for  the 
chair !  ”  said  Billy  Quilleash.  “  And  for  someone  besides  ? 
is  that  what  they're  saying,  the  loblolly-boys  ?  Well, 


88 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


look  here,  bad  cess  to  it,  of  coorse,  some  for  me,  too.  It’s 
terrible  good  for  the  narves,  and  they’re  telling  me  it’s 
morthal  good  for  steddyin’  the  vice.  Going  to  sing  ? 
Coorse,  coorse.  What’s  that  from  the  elber-cheer  ?  Enemy 
eh  ?  Confound  it,  and  that’s  true,  though.  What’s  that 
it’s  sayin’ ?  ‘  Who’s  fool  enough  to  put  the  enemy  into 

his  mouth  to  stale  away  his  brains?’  Aw,  now,  it’s  the 
good  ould  Book  that’s  fine  at  §ummin’  it  all  up.” 

Then  there  was  more  liquor  and  yet  more,  till  the  mouth 
of  the  monastic  lamp  ran  over  with  chinking  coin.  Old 
Billy  struck  up  his  song.  It  was  a  doleful  ditty  on  the 
loss  of  the  herring  fleet  on  one  St.  Matthew’s  Day  not  long 
before. 

An  hour  before  day, 

Tom  Grimshaw,  they  say, 

To  run  for  the  port  had  resolved  ; 

Himself  and  John  More 
Were  lost  in  that  hour, 

And  also  unfortunate  Kinved. 


The  last  three  lines  of  each  verse  were  repeated  by  the 
whole  company  in  chorus.  Doleful  as  the  ditty  might  be, 
the  men  gave  it  voice  with  a  heartiness  that  suggested  no 
special  sense  of  sorrow,  and  loud  as  were  the  voices  of  the 
fisher-fellows,  Dan’s  voice  was  yet  louder. 

“Aw,  Dan,  man,  Dan,  man  alive,  Dan,”  the  men  whis¬ 
pered  among  themselves.  “  What’s  agate  of  Mastha  Dan  ? 
it’s  more  than’s  good,  man,  aw,  yes,  yes,  yes.” 

Still  more  liquor  and  yet  more  noise,  and  then,  through 
the  dense  fumes  of  tobacco-smoke,  old  Billy  Quilleash 
could  be  seen  struggling  to  his  feet.  “Silence!”  he  shout¬ 
ed  ;  “aisy  there  !”  and  he  lifted  up  his  glass.  “  Here’s  to 
Mistha  Dan’l  Mylrea,  and  if  he’s  not  going  among  the 
parzons,  bad  cess  to  them,  he’s  going  among  the  Kays,  and 
when  he  gets  to  the  big  house  at  Castletown,  I’m  calker- 
latin’  it’ll  be  all  up  with  the  lot  o’  them  parzons,  with  their 
tithes  and  their  censures,  and  their  customs  and  their  can¬ 
ons,  and  their  regalashuns  agen  the  countin'  of  the  herrin’, 
and  all  the  rest  of  their  messin'.  What  d’ye  say,  men  ? 
*  Skulking  cowards  ?'  Coorse,  and  right  sarved,  too,  as  I 
say.  And  what’s  that  you’re  grinning  and  winkin’  at,  Ned 
Teare  ?  It’s  middlin’  free  you’re  gettin’  with  the  mastha 
anyhow,  and  if  it  wasn’t  for  me  he  wouldn’t  bemane  him¬ 
self  by  cornin’  among  the  like  of  you,  singin’  and  makin’ 
aisy.  Chaps,  fill  up  your  glasses  every  man  of  you,  d’ye 


THE  DEEMSTER.  89 

hear  ?  Here's  to  the  best  genTman  in  the  island,  bar  none 
— Mistha  Dan’l  Mylrea,  hip,  hip,  hooraa!” 

The  toast  was  responded  to  with  alacrity,  and  loud  shouts 
of  “Dan’l  Mylrea — best  genTman — bar  none/' 

But  what  was  going  on  at  the  head  of  the  table  ?  Dan 
had  risen  from  the  elbow-chair ;  it  was  the  moment  for 
him  to  respond,  but  he  stared  wildly  around,  and  stood 
there  in  silence,  and  his  tongue  seemed  to  cleave  to  his 
mouth.  Every  eye  was  now  fixed  on  his  face,  and  that 
face  quivered  and  turned  white.  The  glass  he  had  held 
in  his  hand  fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers  and  broke  on 
the  table.  Laughter  died  on  every  lip,  and  the  voices  were 
hushed.  At  last  Dan  spoke  ;  his  words  came  slowly,  and 
fell  heavily  on  the  ear. 

“Men,”  he  said,  “you  have  been  drinking  my  health. 
You  call  me  a  good  fellow.  That’s  wrong.  I’m  the  worst 
man  among  you.  Old  Billy  says  I’m  going  to  the  House 
of  Keys.  That's  wrong,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you  where  I  am 
going  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  I’m  going  to  the  devil,”  and 
then,  amid  breathless  silence,  he  dropped  back  in  his  seat 
and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

No  one  spoke.  The  fair  head  lay  on  the  table  among 
broken  pipes  and  the  refuse  of  spilled  liquor.  There  could 
be  no  more  drinking  that  morning.  Every  man  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  picking  up  his  waterproofs  or  his  long  sea- 
boots,  one  after  one  went  shambling  out.  The  room  was 
dense  with  smoke ;  but  outside  the  air  was  light  and  free, 
and  the  morning  sun  shone  brightly. 

“  Strange  now,  wasn’t  it  ?  ”  muttered  one  of  the  fellows. 

“  Strange  uncommon  !  ” 

“  He’s  been  middlin’  heavy  on  the  liquor  lately.” 

“  And  he’d  never  no  right  to  strike  the  young  parzon, 
and  him  his  cousin,  too,  and  terrible  fond  of  him,  as 
they’re  saying.” 

“Well,  well,  it's  middlin’  wicked  anyway.” 

And  so  the  croakers  went  their  way.  In  two  minutes 
more  the  room  was  empty,  except  for  the  stricken  man, 
who  lay  there  with  hidden  face,  and  Davy  Favle,  who, 
with  big  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes,  was  stroking  the 
tangled  curls. 


90 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

dan's  penance. 

Dan  rose  to  his  feet  a  sobered  man;  and  went  out  of  the 
smoky  pot-house  without  a  word  to  anyone,  and  without 
lifting  his  bleared  and  bloodshot  eyes  unto  any  face.  He 
took  the  lane  to  the  shore,  and  behind  him,  with  downcast 
eyes,  like  a  dog  at  the  heels  of  his  master,  Davy  Fayle 
slouched  along.  When  they  reached  the  shore  Dan  turned 
toward  Orris  Head,  walking  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the 
water’s  edge.  Striding  over  the  sands,  the  past  of  his 
childhood  came  back  to  him  with  a  sense  of  pain.  He  saw 
himself  flying  along  the  beach  with  Ewan  and  Mona, 
shouting  at  the  gull,  mocking  the  cormorant,  clambering  up 
the  rocks  to  where  the  long-necked  bird  laid  her  spotted 
eggs,  and  the  sea-pink  grew  under  the  fresh  grass  of  the 
corries.  Under  the  head  Dan  sat  on  a  rock  and  lifted  away 
his  hat  from  his  burning  forehead  ;  but  not  a  breath  of 
wind  stirred  his  soft  hair. 

Dan  rose  again  with  a  new  resolve.  He  knew"  now  what 
course  he  must  take.  He  would  go  to  the  Deemster,  con¬ 
fess  to  the  outrage  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  and  sub¬ 
mit  to  the  just  punishment  of  the  law.  With  quick  steps 
he  strode  back  over  the  beach,  and  Davy  followed  him  un¬ 
til  he  turned  up  to  the  gates  of  the  new  Ballamona,  and 
then  the  lad  rambled  away  under  the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo. 
Dan  found  the  Deemster’s  house  in  a  tumult.  Hommy- 
beg  was  rushing  here  and  there,  and  Dan  called  to  him, 
but  he  waved  his  arm  and  shouted  something  in  reply, 
whereof  the  purport  was  lost,  and  then  disappeared. 
Blind  Kerry  was  there,  and  when  Dan  spoke  to  her  as  she 
went  up  the  stairs,  he  could  gather  nothing  from  her  hur¬ 
ried  answer  except  that  someone  was  morthal  bad,  as  the 
saying  was,  and  in  another  moment  she,  too,  had  gone. 
Dan  stood  in  the  hall  with  a  sense  of  impending  disaster. 
What  had  happened  ?  A  dread  idea  struck  him  at  that 
moment  like  a  blow  on  the  brain.  The  sweat  started  from 
his  forehead.  He  could  bear  the  uncertainty  no  longer, 
and  had  set  foot  on  the  stairs  to  follow  the  blind  woman, 
when  there  was  the  sound  of  a  light  step  descending.  1 17 
another  moment  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Mona.  She 
colored  deeply,  and  his  head  fell  before  her. 


THE  DEEMSTER.  ^ 

11  1$  it  Ewan  ? M  he  said,  and  his  voice  came  like  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

“No,  his  wife/’  said  Mona. 

It  turned  out  that  not  long  after  daybreak  that  morning 
the  young  wife  of  Ewan,  who  had  slept  with  Mona,  had 
awakened  with  a  start,  and  the  sensation  of  having  received 
a  heavy  blow  on  the  forehead.  She  had  roused  Mona,  and 
told  her  what  seemed  to  have  occurred.  They  had  looked 
about  and  seen  nothing  that  could  have  fallen.  They  had 
risen  from  bed  and  examined  the  room,  and  had  found 
everything  as  it  had  been  when  they  lay  down.  The  door 
was  shut  and  there  was  no  hood  above  the  bed.  But 
Mona  had  drawn  up  the  window  blind,  and  then  she  had 
seen,  clearly  marked  on  the  white  forehead  of  Ewan’s 
young  wife,  a  little  above  the  temple,  on  the  spot  where 
she  had  seemed  to  feel  the  blow,  a  streak  of  pale  color 
such  as  might  have  been  made  by  the  scratch  of  a  thorn 
that  had  not  torn  the  skin.  It  had  been  a  perplexing  dif¬ 
ficulty,  and  the  girls  had  gone  back  to  bed,  and  talked  of 
it  in  whispers  until  they  had  fallen  asleep  in  each  other’s 
arms.  When  they  had  awakened  again,  the  Deemster  was 
rapping  at  their  door  to  say  that  he  had  taken  an  early 
breakfast,  that  he  was  going  off  to  hold  his  court  at  Ram¬ 
sey,  and  expected  to  be  back  at  midday.  Then  half-tim- 
idly,  Mona  had  told  her  father  of  their  strange  experience, 
but  he  had  bantered  them  on  their  folly,  and  they  had  still 
heard  his  laughter  when  he  had  leapt  to  the  saddle  in  front 
of  the  house,  and  was  cantering  away  over  the  gravel. 
Reassured  by  the  Deemster’s  unbelief,  the  girls  had  thrown 
off  their  vague  misgivings,  and  given  way  to  good  spirits. 
Ewan’s  young  wife  had  said  that  all  morning  she  had 
dreamt  of  her  husband,  and  .that  her  dreams  had  been 
bright  and  happy.  They  had  gone  down  to  breakfast,  but 
scarcely  had  they  been  seated  at  the  table  before  they  had 
heard  the  click  of  the  gate  from  the  road. 

Then  they  had  risen  together,  and  Ewan  had  come  up 
the  path  with  a  white  bandage  about  his  head,  and  with  a 
streak  of  blood  above  the  temple.  With  a  sharp  cry, 
Ewan’s  young  wife  had  fallen  to  the  ground  insensible, 
and  when  Ewan  himself  had  come  into  the  house  they  had 
carried  her  back  to  bed.  There  she  was  at  that  moment, 
and  from  a  peculiar  delicacy  of  her  health  at  the  time, 
there  was  but  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  the  shock 
might  have  serious  results. 

All  this  Mona  told  to  Dan  from  where  she  stood,  three 


& 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


steps  up  the  stairs,  and  he  listened  with  his  head  held  lowf 
one  hand  gripping  the  stair-rail,  and  his  foot  pawing  the 
mat  at  the  bottom.  When  she  finished,  there  was  a  pause, 
and  then  there  came  from  overhead  a  long,  deep  moan  of 
pain. 

Dan  lifted  his  face  ;  its  sudden  pallor  was  startling. 
“  Mona,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  husky  in  his  throat, 
r  do  you  know  who  struck  Ewan  that  blow  ?  ” 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  and  then,  half  in  a  whis¬ 
per,  half  with  a  sob,  Mona  answered  that  she  knew.*  It 
had  not  been  from  Ewan  himself,  but  by  one  of  the  many 
tongues  of  scandal,  that  the  news  had  come  to  Ballamona. 

Dan  railed  at  himself  in  bitter  words,  and  called  God  to 
witness  that  he  had  been  a  curse  to  himself  and  everyone 
about  him.  Mona  let  the  torrent  of  his  self-reproach  spend 
itself,  and  then  she  said : 

-  “  Dan,  you  must  be  reconciled  to  Ewan.” 

“Not  yet,”  he  answered. 

“Yes,  yes,  I’m  sure  he  would  forgive  you,”  said  Mona, 
and  she  turned  about  as  if  in  the  act  of  going  back  to  seek 
for  Ewan. 

Dan  grasped  her  hand  firmly.  “No,”  he  said,  “don’t 
heap  coals  of  fire  on  my  head,  Mona  ;  don’t,  don’t.”  And 
after  a  moment,  with  a  calmer  manner,  “  I  must  see  the 
Deemster  first.” 

Hardly  had  this  been  spoken  when  they  heard  a  horse’s 
hoofs  on  the  gravel  path,  and  the  Deemster’s  voice  calling 
to  Hommy-beg  as  he  threw  the  reins  over  the  post  near 
the  door  and  entered  the  house.  The  Deemster  was  in 
unusual  spirits,  and  slapped  Dan  on  the  back  and  laughed 
as  he  went  into  his  room.  Dan  followed  him,  and  Mona 
crept  nervously  to  the  open  door.  With  head  held  down, 
Dan  told  what  had  occurred.  The  Deemster  listened  and 
laughed,  asked  further  particulars  and  laughed  again, 
threw  off  his  riding  boots  and  leggings,  looked  knowingly 
from  under  his  shaggy  brows,  and  then  laughed  once 
more. 

“  And  what  d’ye  say  you  want  me  to  do  for  you,  Danny 
veg  ?  ”  he  asked,  with  one  side  of  his  wrinkled  face  twisted 
awry. 

“To  punish  me,  sir,”  said  Dan. 

At  that  the  Deemster,  who  was  buckling  his  slippers, 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  sent  a  shrill  peal  of 
mocking  laughter  through  the  house.  \ 

Dan  was  unmoved.  His  countenance  did  not  bend  as 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


93 

he  said  slowly,  and  in  a  low  tone,  “  If  you  don’t  do  it,  sir,  I 
shall  never  look  into  Ewan's  face  again." 

The  Deemster  fixed  his  buckles,  rose  to  his  feet,  slapped 
Dan  on  the  back,  said  :  “  Go  home,  man  veen,  go  home," 
and  then  hurried  away  to  the  kitchen,  where  in  another 
moment  his  testy  voice  could  be  heard  directing  Hommy- 
beg  to  put  up  the  saddle  on  the  “  lath." 

Mona  looked  into  Dan’s  face.  “Will  you  be  reconciled 
to  Ewan  now  ?"  she  said,  and  took  both  his  hands  and  held 
them. 

“No,"  he  answered  firmly,  “  I  will  see  the  Bishop."  His 
eyes  were  dilated  ;  his  face,  that  had  hitherto  been  very 
mournful  to  see,  was  alive  with  a  strange  fire.  Mona  held 
his  hands  with  a  passionate  grasp. 

“Dan,"  she  said,  with  a  great  tenderness,  “this  is  very, 
very  noble  of  you  ;  this  is  like  our  Dan,  this - " 

She  stopped  ;  she  trembled  and  glowed  ;  her  eyes  were 
close  to  his.  . 

“Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  his  hands,  and  at  the  next  instant  he  was 
gone  from  the  house. 

Dan  found  the  Bishop  at  Bishop's  Court,  and  told  him 
all.  The  Bishop  had  heard  the  story  already,  but  he  said 
nothing  of  that.  He  knew  when  Dan  hid  his  provocation 
and  painted  his  offence  at  its  blackest.  With  a  grave  face 
he  listened  while  Dan  accused  himself,  and  his  heart 
heaved  within  him. 

“  It  is  a  serious  offence,"  he  said  ;  “to  strike  a  minister  is 
a  grievous  offence,  and  the  Church  provides  a  censure." 

Dan  held  his  face  very  low,  and  clasped  his  hands  in 
front  of  him. 

“The  censure  is  that  on  the  next  Sabbath  morning  fol¬ 
lowing,  in  the  presence  of  the  congregation,  you  shall  walk 
up  the  aisle  of  the  parish  church  from  the  porch  to  the  com¬ 
munion  behind  the  minister,  who  shall  read  the  51st  Psalm 
meantime." 

The  Bishop's  deep  tones  and  quiet  manner  concealed 
his  strong  emotion,  and  Dan  went  out  without  another 
Word. 

This  was  Friday,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
Ewan  heard  what  had  passed  between  Dan  and  the  Deem¬ 
ster  and  between  Dan  and  the  Bishop,  and  with  a  great 
lump  in  his  throat  he  went  across  to  Bishop's  Court  to  pray 
that  the  censure  might  be  taken  off. 

“  The  provocation  was  mine,  and  he  is  peaiteat,"  said 


94 


-  THE  DEEMSTER. 


Ewan  ;  and  with  heaving  breast  the  Bishop  heard  him  out, 
and  then  shook  his  head. 

“  The  censures  of  the  Church  were  never  meant  to  pass 
by  the  house  of  the  Bishop,”  he  said. 

“  But  he  is  too  deeply  abased  already,”  said  Ewan. 

“  The  offence  was  committed  in  public,  and  before  the 
eyes  of  all  men  the  expiation  must  be  made.” 

“But  I,  too,  am  ashamed — think  of  it,  and  remove  the 
censure,”  said  Ewan,  and  his  voice  trembled  and  broke. 

The  Bishop  gazed  out  at  the  window  with  blurred  eyes 
that  saw  nothing.  “Ewan,”  he  said,  “  it  is  God’s  hand  oa 
the  lad.  Let  it  be  ;  let  it  be.” 

Next  day  the  Bishop  sent  his  sumner  round  the  parish, 
asking  that  every  house  might  send  one  at  least  to  the  par¬ 
ish  church  next  morning. 

On  Sunday  Ewan’s  young  wife  kept  her  bed  ;  but  when 
Ewan  left  her  for  the  church  the  shock  to  her  nerves 
seemed  in  a  measure  to  have  passed  away.  There  was 
still,  however,  one  great  disaster  to  fear,  and  Mona  re¬ 
mained  at  the  bedside. 

The  meaning  of  the  sumner’s  summons  had  eked  out, 
and  long  before  the  hour  of  service  the  parish  church  was 
crowded.  The  riff-raff  that  never  came  to  church  from 
year’s  end  to  year’s  end,  except  to  celebrate  the  Oiel 
Verree,  were  there  with  eager  eyes.  While  Will-as-Thorn 
tolled  the  bell  from  the  rope  suspended  in  the  porch,  there 
was  a  low  buzz  of  gossip,  but  when  the-  bell  ceased  its 
hoarse  clangor,  and  Will-as-Thorn  appeared  with  his 
pitch-pipe  in  the  frent  of  the  gallery,  there  could  be  heard, 
in  the  silence  that  followed  over  the  crowded  church,  the 
loud  tick  of  the  wooden  clock  in  front  of  him. 

Presently  from  the  porch  there  came  a  low,  tremulous 
voice  reading  the  Psalm  that  begins,  “  Have  mercy  upon 
me,  O  God,  after  thy  great  goodness  :  according  to  the 
multitude  of  thy  mercies  do  away  mine  offences.” 

Them  the  people  who  sat  in  front  turned  about,  and 
those  who  sat  at  the  side  strained  across,  and  those  who 
sat  above  craned  forward. 

Ewan  was  walking  slowly  up  the  aisle  in  his  surplice, 
with  his  pale  face  and  scarred  forehead  bent  low  over  the 
book  in  his  hand,  and  close  behind  him,  towering  above 
him  in  his  great  stature,  with  head  held  down,  but  with  a 
steadfast  gaze,  his  hat  in  his  hands,  his  step  firm  and  reso¬ 
lute,  Dan  Mylrea  strode  along. 

There  was  a  dead  hush  over  the  congregation. 


THE  DEEMSTER 


9i 


u  Wash  me  throughly  from  my  wickedness  :  and  cleanse 
•me  from  my  sin.  For  I  acknowledge  my  faults  ;  and  my 
sin  is  ever  before  me.” 

The  tremulous  voice  rose  and  fell,  and  nothing  else  broke 
the  silence  except  the  uncertain  step  of  the  reader,  and  the 
strong  tread  of  the  penitent  behind  him. 

“  Against  thee  only  have  I  sinned,  and  done  this  evil  in 
thy  sight - ” 

At  this  the  tremulous  voice  deepened,  and  stopped,  and 
went  on  and  stopped  again,  and  when  the  words  came 
once  more  they  came  in  a  deep,  low  sob,  and  the  reader’s 
head  fell  into  his  breast. 

Not  until  the  Psalm  came  to  an  end,  and  Ewan  and  Dan 
had  reached  the  communion,  and  the  vicar  had  begun  the 
morning  prayer,  and  Will-as-Thorn  had  sent  out  a  blast 
from  his  pitch-pipe,  was  the  hard  tension  of  that  moment 
broken. 

When  the  morning  service  ended,  the  Deemster  rose 
from  his  pew  and  hurried  down  the  aisle.  As  usual,  he 
was  the  first  to  leave  the  church.  The  ghostly  smile  with 
which  he  had  witnessed  the  penance  that  had  brought 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  others  was  still  on  the  Deemster’s  lip, 
and  a  chuckle  was  in  his  throat  when  at  the  gate  of  the 
churchyard  he  met  Hommy-beg,  whose  face  was  livid  from 
a  long  run,  and  who  stood  for  an  instant  panting  for 
breath. 

“  Well,  well,  well  ?  ”  said  the  Deemster,  sending  the 
words  like  small  shot  into  Hommy-beg’s  deaf  ear. 

“  Terrible,  terrible,  terrible/’  said  Hommy-beg,  and  he 
lifted  his  hands. 

“  What  is  it  ?  What  ?  What  ?  ” 

“  The  young  woman-body  is  dead  in  child-bed.” 

Then  the  ghostly  smile  fled  from  the  Deemster’s  face. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOW  EWAN  MOURNED  FOR  HIS  WIFE. 

What  passed  at  the  new  Ballamona  on  that  morning  of 
Dan’s  penance  was  very  pitiful.  There,  in  the  death- 
chamber  already  darkened,  lay  Ewan’s  young  wife,  her 
eyes  lightly  closed,  her  girlish  features  composed,  and  a 
faint  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheeks.  Her  breast  was  half 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


9* 

open,  and  her  beautiful  head  lay  in  a  pillow  of  her  soft 
brown  hair.  One  round  arm  was  stretched  over  the  coun¬ 
terpane,  and  the  delicate  fingers  were  curved  inward  until 
the  thumb-nail,  like  an  acorn,  rested  on  the  inner  rim  of  a 
ring.  Quiet,  peaceful,  very  sweet  and  tender,  she  lay 
there  like  one  who  slept.  After  a  short,  sharp  pang  she 
had  died  gently,  without  a  struggle,  almost  without  a 
sigh,  merely  closing  her  eyes  as  one  who  was  weary,  and 
drawing  a  long,  deep  breath.  In  dying  she  had  given 
premature  birth  to  a  child,  a  girl,  and  the  infant  was 
alive,  and  was  taken  from  the  mother  at  the  moment  of 
death. 

When  the  Deemster  entered  the  room,  with  a  face  of 
great  pallor  and  eyes  of  fear,  Mona  was  standing  by  the 
bed-head  gazing  down,  but  seeing  nothing.  The  Deem¬ 
ster  felt  the  pulse  of  the  arm  over  the  counterpane  with 
fingers  that  trembled  visibly.  Then  he  shot  away  from 
the  room,  and  was  no  more  seen  that  day.  The  vicar,  the 
child-wife’s  father,  came  with  panting  breath  and  stood  by 
the  bedside  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  aside  in 
silence.  Ewan  came,  too,  and  behind  him  Dan  walked  to 
the  door  and  there  stopped,  and  let  Ewan  enter  the  cham¬ 
ber  of  his  great  sorrow  alone.  Not  a  word  was  said  until 
Ewan  went  down  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  and 
put  his  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her  lips,  still  warm,  with 
his  own  far  colder  lips,  and  called  to  her  softly  by  her 
name,  as  though  she  slept  gently,  and  must  not  be  awak¬ 
ened  too  harshly,  and  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  called 
again,  in  a  tenderer  tone  that  brushed  the  upturned  face 
like  a  caress  : 

“Aileen!  Aileen !  Aileen!” 

Mona  covered  her  eyes  in  her  hands,  and  Dan,  where  he 
stood  at  the  door,  turned  his  head  away. 

14  Aileen  !  Ailee  !  Ailee !  My  Ailee  !  ” 

The  voice  went  like  a  whisper  and  a  kiss  into  the  deaf 
ear,  and  only  one  other  sound  was  heard,  and  that  was  the 
faint  cry  of  an  infant  from  a  room  below. 

Ewan  raised  his  head  and  seemed  to  listen ;  he  paused 
and  looked  at  the  faint  color  in  the  quiet  cheeks  ;  he  put 
his  hand  lightly  on  the  heart,  and  looked  long  at  the  breast 
that  did  not  heave.  Then  he  drew  his  arms  very  slowly 
away,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  as  one  dazed,  like  a  man  whose 
brain  is  benumbed,  and,  with  the  vacant  light  still  in  his 
eyes,  he  touched  Mona  on  the  arm  and  drew  her  hand, 


THE  DEEMSTER.  97 

from  her  eyes,  and  he  said,  as  one  who  tells  you  some¬ 
thing  that  you  could  not  think,  “She  is  dead  !" 

Mona  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  at  sight  of  it  the 
tears  rained  down  her  own.  Dan  had  stepped  into  the 
room  noiselessly,  and  came  behind  Ewan,  and  when  Ewan 
felt  his  presence,  he  turned  to  Dan  with  the  same  vacant 
look,  and  repeated  in  the  same  empty  tone,  “  She  is  dead  ! " 

And  never  a  tear  came  into  Ewan's  eyes  to  soften  their 
look  of  dull  torpor ;  never  again  did  he  stretch  out  his 
arms  to  the  silent  form  beneath  him  ;  only  with  dazed, 
dry  eyes,  he  looked  down,  and  said  once  more,  “She  is 
dead!  ’ 

Dan  could  bear  up  no  longer ;  his  heart  was  choking, 
and  he  went  out  without  a  word. 

It  was  the  dread  silence  of  feeling  that  was  frozen,  but 
the. thaw  came  in  its  time.  They  laid  out  the  body  of  the 
young  wife  in  the  darkened  room,  and  Ewan  went  away 
and  rambled  over  the  house  all  day  long,  and  when  night 
fell  in,  and  the  lighted  candles  were  set  in  the  death-cham¬ 
ber,  and  all  in  Ballamona  were  going  off  to  bed,  Ewan  was 
still  rambling  aimlessly  from  room  to  room.  He  was  very 
quiet,  and  he  spoke  little  and  did  not  weep  at  all.  In  the 
middle  of  that  night  the  Deemster  opened  his  bedroom 
door  and  listened,  and  Ewan's  step  was  still  passing  from 
room  to  room,  and  Mona  heard  the  same  restless  footfall 
in  every  break  of  her  fitful  sleep.  But  later  on,  in  the  dark 
hour  that  comes  before  day,  the  Deemster  opened  his  door 
and  listened  again,  and  then  all  was  quiet  in  the  house. 
u  He  has  gone  to  bed  at  last,"  thought  the  Deemster  ;  but 
in  the  early  morning,  as  he  passed  by  Ewan's  room,  he 
found  the  door  open,  and  saw  that  the  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in. 

The  second  day  went  by  like  the  first,  and  the  next  night 
like  the  former  one,  and  again  in  the  dead  of  night  the 
Deemster  opened  his  door  and  heard  Ewan's  step.  Once 
more,  in  the  dark  hour  that  goes  before  the  day,  he  opened 
his  door  and  listened  again,  and  all  was  quiet  as  before. 
“Surely  he  is  in  bed  now,"  thought  the  Deemster.  He 
was  turning  back  into  his  own  room,  when  he  felt  a  sudden 
impulse  to  go  to  Ewan's  room  first  and  see  if  it  was  as  he 
supposed.  He  went,  and  the  door  was  open  and  Ewan 
was  not  there,  and  again  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 

The  Deemster  crept  back  on  tiptoe,  and  a  gruesome 
feeling  took  hold  of  him.  He  could  not  lie,  and  no  sleep 
had  come  near  his  wakeful  eyes,  so  he  waited  and  listened 

? 


9* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


for  that  unquiet  beat  of  restless  feet,  but  the  sound  did 
not  come.  Then,  as  the  day  was  breaking  over  the  top  of 
Slieu  Dhoo,  and  all  the  Curraghs  around  lay  veiled  in 
mist,  and  far  away  to  the  west  a  deep  line  stretched  across 
where  the  dark  sea  lay  with  the  lightening  sky  above  it, 
the  Deemster  opened  his  door  yet  again,  and  went  along 
the  corridor  steadily  until  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  room 
where  the  body  was.  “  Perhaps  he  is  sitting  with  her,”  he 
thought,  with  awe,  and  he  turned  the  handle.  But  when 
the  door  swung  open  the  Deemster  paused  ;  a  faint  sound 
broke  the  silence  ;  it  was  a  soft  and  measured  breathing 
from  within.  Quivering  with  dread,  the  Deemster  stepped 
into  the  death-chamber,  and  his  head  turned  rigidly  toward 
the  bed.  There,  in  the  gloom  of  the  dawn  that  came  over 
the  light  of  the  last  candle  that  flickered  in  its  socket, 
Ewan  lay  outstretched  by  the  side  of  the  white,  upturned 
face  of  his  dead  wife,  and  his  hand  lay  on  her  hand,  and 
he  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

To  the  Deemster  it  was  as  if  a  spirit  had  passed  before 
his  face,  and  the  hair  of  his  flesh  stood  up.  / 

They  buried  Ewan’s  young  wife  side  by  side  with  his 
mother,  under  the  elder-tree  (now  thick  with  clusters  of 
the  green  berry)  by  the  wall  of  the  churchyard  that  stood 
over  by  the  sea.  The  morning  was  fine,  but  the  sun  shone 
dimly  through  a  crust  of  hot  air  that  gathered  and  slum¬ 
bered  and  caked  above.  Ewan  passed  through  all  without 
a  word,  or  a  sigh,  or  a  tear.  But  when  the  company  re¬ 
turned  to  the  Deemster’s  house,  and  Mona  spoke  to  Ewan 
and  he  answered  her  without  any  show  of  feeling,  and  Dan 
told  him  of  his  own  remorse  and  accused  himself  of  every 
disaster,  and  still  Ewan  gave  no  sign,  but  went  in  and  out 
among  them  all  with  the  vacant  light  in  his  eyes,  then  the 
Bishop  whispered  to  Mona,  and  she  went  out  and  pres¬ 
ently  came  again,  and  in  her  arms  was  the  infant  in  its 
white  linen  clothes. 

The  sun  was  now  hidden  by  the  heavy  cloud  overhead, 
and  against  the  window-panes  at  that  moment  there  was  a 
light  pattering  of  rain-drops.  Ewan  had  watched  with  his 
vacant  gaze  when  Mona  went  out,  but  when  she  came 
again  a  new  light  seemed  to  come  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
stepped  up  to  her  and  looked  down  at  the  little  face  that 
was  sleeping  softly  against  her  breast.  Then  he  put  out 
his  arms  to  take  the  child,  and  Mona  passed  it  to  him,  and 
he  held  it,  and  sat  down  with  it,  and  all  at  once  the  tears 
came  into  his  dry  eyes  and  he  wept  aloud 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WRESTLING  WITH  FATE. 

So  far  as  concerned  the  Deemster,  the  death  of  Ewan's 
wife  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Had  she  not  died 
under  the  roof  of  the  new  Ballamona  ?  Was  it  not  by  the 
strangest  of  accidents  that  she  had  died  there,  and  not  in 
her  own  home  ?  Had  she  not  died  in  child-bed  i  Did  not 
everything  attending  her  death  suggest  the  force  of  an 
irresistible  fate  ?  More  than  twenty  years  ago  the  woman 
Kerruish,  the  mother  of  Mally  Kerruish,  had  cursed  this 
house,  and  said  that  no  life  would  come  to  it  but  death 
would  come  with  it. 

And  for  more  than  twenty  years  the  Deemster  had  done 
his  best  to  laugh  at  the  prediction  and  to  forget  it.  Who 
was  he  that  he  should  be  the  victim  of  fear  at  the  sneezing 
of  an  old  woman  ?  What  was  he  that  he  should  not  be 
master  of  his  fate  ?  But  what  had  occurred  ?  For  more 
than  twenty  years  one  disturbing  and  distinct  idea  had  en¬ 
grossed  him.  In  all  his  waking  hours  it  exasperated  him, 
and  even  in  his  hours  of  *sleep  it  lay  heavy  at  the  back  of 
his  brain  as  a  dull  feeling  of  dread.  On  the  bench,  in  the 
saddle,  at  table,  alone  by  the  winter's  fire,  alone  in  sum¬ 
mer  walks,  the  obstinate  idea  was  always  there.  And 
nothing  but  death  seemed  likely  to  shake  it  off. 

Often  he  laughed  at  it  in  his  long,  lingering,  nervous 
laugh  ;  but  it  was  a  chain  that  was  slowly  tightening  about 
him.  Everything  was  being  fulfilled.  First  came  the 
death  of  his  wife  at  the  birth  of  Mona,  and  now,  after  an 
interval  of  twenty  years,  the  death  of  his  son's  wife  at  the 
birth  of  her  child.  In  that  stretch  of  time  he  had  become 
in  his  own  view  a  childless  man  ;  his  hopes  had  been 
thwarted  in  the  son  on  whom  alone  his  hopes  had  been 
built ;  the  house  he  had  founded  was  but  an  echoing  vault ; 
the  fortune  he  had  reared  an  empty  bubble.  He  was  ac¬ 
cursed  ;  God  had  heard  the  woman’s  voice  ;  he  looked  too 
steadily  at  the  facts  to  mistake  them,  and  let  the  incredu* 
lous  fools  laugh  if  they  liked. 

When,  twenty  years  before,  the  Deemster  realized  that 
he  was  the  slave  of  one  tyrannical  idea,  he  tried  to  break 
the  fate  that  hung  aver  him.  He  bought  up  the  cottage 
on  the  Brew,  and  turned  the  woman  Kerruish  into  tEe 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


f&d 

roads.  Then  he  put  his  foot  on  every  sign  of  superstitious 
belief  that  came  in  his  way  as  judge. 

But  not  with  such  brave  shows  of  unbelief  could  he  con- 
quGir  his  one  disturbing  idea.  His  nature  had  never  been 
kindly,  but  now  there  grew  upon  him  an  obstinate  hatred 
of  everybody.  This  was  in  the  days  when  his  children, 
Ewan  and  Mona,  lived  in  the  cosey  nest  at  Bishop’s  Court. 
If  in  these  days  any  man  mentioned  the  Kerruishes  in  the 
Deemster’s  presence,  he  showed  irritation,  but  he  kept  his 
ears  open  for  every  syllable  said  about  them.  He  knew 
all  their  history  ;  he  knew  when  the  girl  Mally  fled  away 
from  the  island  on  fhe  day  of  Ewan’s  christening  ;  lie  knew 
by  what  boat  she  sailed ;  he  knew  where  she  settled  her¬ 
self  in  England  ;  he  knew  when  her  child  was  born,  and 
when,  in  terror  at  the  unfulfilled  censure  of  the  Church  that 
hung  over  her  (separating  her  from  all  communion  with 
God's  people  in  life  or  hope  of  redemption  in  death),  she 
came  back  to  the  island,  drawn  by  an  irresistible  idea,  her 
child  at  her  breast,  to  work  out  her  penance  on  the  scene 
of  her  shame. 

Thereafter  he  watched  her  daily,  and  knew  her  life.  She 
had  been  taken  back  to  work  at  the  net-looms  of  Kinvig, 
the  Peeltown  net-maker,  and  she  lived  with  her  mother  at 
the  cottage  over  the  Head,  and  there  in  poverty  she 
brought  up  her  child,  her  boy,  Jarvis  Kerruish,  as  she  had 
called  him.  If  any  pointed  at  her  and  laughed  with 
cruelty  ;  if  any  pretended  to  sympathize  with  her  and  said, 
with  a  snigger,  “  The  first  error  is  always  forgiven,  Mally 
woman  if  any  mentioned  the  Deemster  himself,  and  said, 
with  a  wink,  “  I’m  thinking  it  terrible  strange,  Mally,  that 
you  don't  take  a  slue  round  and  put  a  sight  on  him  ;  ”  if 
any  said  to  her  when  she  bought  a  new  garment  out  of 
her  scant  earnings,  a  gown,  or  even  a  scarf  or  bit  of  bright 
ribbon  such  as  she  loved  in  the  old  days,  “  Dearee  dear  ! 
I  thought  you  wouldn’t  take  rest,  but  be  up  and  put  a  sight 
on  the  ould  crooky  ” — the  Deemster  knew  it  all.  He  saw 
the  ruddy,  audacious  girl  of  twenty  sink  into  the  pallid  slat¬ 
tern  of  thirty,  without  hope,  without  joy  in  life,  and  with 
only  a  single  tie. 

And  the  Deemster  found  that  there  grew  upon  him  daily 
his  old  malicious  feeling  ;  but  so  .far  as  concerned  his 
outer  bearing,  matters  took  a  turn  on  the  day  he  came  upon 
the  boys,  Dan  Mylrea  and  Jarvis  Kerruish,  fighting  in  the 
road.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  boy  Jarvis. 
“  Who  is  he  ? "  he  had  asked,  and  the  old  woman  Kern* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


HI 

ish  had  made  answer,  “  Don't  you  know  him,  Deemster  ? 
Do  you  never  see  a  face  like  that  ?  Not  when  you  look 
in  the  glass  ?  " 

There  was  no  need  to  look  twice  into  a  mirror  like  the 
face  of  that  lad  to  know  whose  son  he  was. 

The  Deemster  went  home  to  Ballamona,  and  thought 
over  the  fierce  encounter.  He  could  tolerate  no  longer 
the  living  reproach  of  this  boy's  presence  within  a  few 
miles  of  his  own  house,  and,  by  an  impulse  no  better  than 
humbled  pride,  he  went  back  to  the  cottage  of  the  Ker- 
ruishes  at  night,  alone,  and  afoot  The  cottage  was  a  lone 
place  on  the  top  of  a  bare  heath,  with  the  bleak  sea  in 
front,  and  the  purple  hills  behind,  and  with  a  fenceless  cart- 
track  leading  up  to  it.  A  lead  mine,  known  as  the  Cross 
Vein,  had  been  worked  there  forty  years  before.  The 
shaft  was  still  open,  and  now  full  of  dark,  foul  water  al¬ 
most  to  the  surface.  One  roofless  wall  showed  where  the 
gear  had  stood,  and  under  the  shelter  of  this  wall  there 
crouched  a  low  thatched  tool-shed,  having  a  door  and  a 
small  window.  This  was  the  cottage  ;  and  until  old  Mrs. 
Kerruish  had  brought  there  her  few  rickety  sticks  when, 
by  the  Deemster’s  orders,  they  had  been  thrown  into  the 
road,  none  had  ever  occupied  the  tool-shed  as  a  house. 

The  door  was  open,  and  the  Deemster  stepped  in.  One 
of  the  women,  old  Mrs.  Kerruish,  was  sitting  on  a  stool  by 
the  fire — it  was  a  fire  of  sputtering  hazel  sticks — shredding 
some  scraps  of  green  vegetables  into  a  pot  of  broth  that 
swung  from  the  iron  hook  of  the  chimney.  The  other 
woman,  Mally,  was  doing  something  in  the  dark  crib  of  a 
sleeping-room,  shut  off  from  the  living-room  by  a  wooden 
partition  like  the  stanchion-board  of  a  stable.  The  boy 
was  asleep  ;  his  soft  breathing  came  from  the  dark  crib. 

“  Mrs.  Kerruish,"  said  the  Deemster,  “  I  am  willing  to 
take  the  lad,  and  rear  him,  and  when  the  time  comes,  to 
set  him  to  business,  and  give  him  a  start  in  life." 

Mrs.  Kerruish  had  risen  stiffly  from  her  stool,  and  her 
face  was  set  hard. 

“  Think  of  it,  woman,  think  of  it,  and  don't  answer  in 
haste,"  said  the  Deemster. 

“  We'd  have  to  be  despard  hard  put  to  for  a  bite  and  a 
sup  before  we'd  take  anything  from  you,  Deemster,"  said 
the  old  woman. 

The  Deemster's  quick  eyes,  under  the  shaggy  gray 
brows,  glanced  about  the  room.  It  was  a  place  of  poverty, 
descending  to  squalor.  The  floor  was  of  the  bare  earth 


102 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


trodden  hard,  the  roof  was  of  the  bare  thatch,  with  her® 
and  there  a  lath  pushed  between  the  unhewn  spars  to 
keep  it  up,  and  here  and  there  a  broken  patch  dropping 
hayseed. 

“  You  are  desperate  hard  put  to,  woman/’  said  the  Deem¬ 
ster,  and  at  that  Mally  herself  came  out  of  the  sleeping- 
crib.  Her  face  was  thin  and  pale,  and  her  bleared  eyes 
had  lost  their  sharp  light  ;  it  was  a  countenance  without 
one  ray  of  hope. 

“Stop,  mother/’  she  said,  “let  us  hear  what  the  Deem¬ 
ster  has  to  offer.” 

“  Offer  ?  Offer  ?  ”  the  old  woman  rapped  out ;  “  you’ve 
had  enough  of  the  Deemster’s  offers,  I’m  thinking.’* 

“Be quiet,  mother,”  said  Mally,  and  then  she  turned  to 
the  Deemster  and  said,  “Well,  sir,  and  what  is  it  ?  ” 

“  Aw,  very  nate  and  amazing  civil  to  dirks  like  that — go 
on,  girl,  go  on,”  said  the  old  woman,  tossing  her  head  and 
hand  in  anger  toward  Mally. 

“  Mother,  this  is  my  concern,  I’m  thinking — what  is  it, 
sir  ?  ” 

But  the  old  woman’s  wrath  at  her  daughter’s  patience 
was  not  to  be  kept  down.  “  Behold  ye  !  ”  she  said,  “  it’s 
my  own  girl  that’s  after  telling  me  before  strangers  that 
I’ve  not  a  farthing  at  me,  and  me  good  for  nothing  at 
working,  and  only  fit  to  hobble  about  on  a  stick,  and  fix 
the  house  tidy  maybe,  and  to  have  no  say  in  nothing — go 
on,  och,  go  on,  girl.” 

The  Deemster  explained  his  proposal.  It  was  that  the 
boy  Jarvis  should  be  given  entirely  into  his  control,  and  bo 
no  more  known  by  his  mother  and  his  mother’s  mother, 
and  perhaps  no  more  seen  or  claimed  or  acknowledged  by 
them,  and  that  the  Deemster  should  provide  for  him  and 
see  him  started  in  life. 

Mrs.  Kerruish’s  impatience  knew  no  bounds.  “  My 
gough  1  ”  she  cried — “  my  gough,  my  gough  !  ”  But  Mally 
listened  and  reflected.  Her  spirit  was  broken,  and  she 
was  thinking  of  her  poverty.  Her  mother  was  now  laid 
aside  by  rheumatism,  and  could  earn  nothing,  and  she  her¬ 
self  worked  piecework  at  the  net-making — so  much  for  a 
piece  of  net,  a  hundred  yards  long  by  two  hundred  meshes 
deep,  toiling  without  heart  from  eight  to  eight,  and  earn-* 
ing  four,  five,  and  six  shillings  aweek.  And  if  there  was  a 
want,  her  boy  felt  it.  She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and 
after  a  moment  the  Deemster  turned  to  the  door.  “  Think 
Of  it/’  he  said  ;  “  think  of  it.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


** 

u  Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 99  cried  the  old  woman,  derisively, 
from  her  stool,  her  untamable  soul  aflame  with  indignation. 

“  Be  quiet,  mother/'  said  Mally,  and  the  hopelessness 
that  had  spoken  from  her  eyes  seemed  then  to  find  a  way 
into  her  voice. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Jarvis  Kerruish  was  sent  to  a 
school  at  Liverpool,  and  remained  there  three  years,  and 
then  became  a  clerk  in  the  counting-house  of  Benas 
Brothers,  of  the  Goree  Piazza,  ostensibly  African  mer¬ 
chants,  really  English  money-lenders.  Jarvis  did  not  fret 
at  the  loss  of  his  mother,  and  of  course  he  never  wrote  to 
her ;  but  he  addressed  a  careful  letter  to  the  Deemster 
twice  a  year,  beginning  “  Honored  Sir,"  and  ending 
“  Yours,  with  much  respect,  most  obediently."* 

Mally  had  miscalculated  her  self-command.  If  she  had 
thought  of  her  poverty,  it  had  been  because  she  had 
thought  of  her  boy  as  well.  He  would  be  lifted  above  it 
all  if  she  could  but  bring  herself  to  part  with  him.  She 
wrought  up  her  feelings  to  the  sacrifice,  and  gave  away 
her  son,  and  sat  down  as  a  broken-spirited  and  childless 
woman.  Then  she  realized  the  price  she  had  to  pay. 
The  boy  had  been  the  cause  of  her  shame  ;  but  he  had 
been  the  centre  of  her  pride  as  well.  If  she  had  been  a 
hopeless  woman  before,  she  was  now  a  heartless  one. 
Little  by  little  she  fell  into  habits  of  idleness  and  intem¬ 
perance.  Before  young  Jarvis  sat  in  his  frilled  shirt  on 
the  stool  in  the  Goree  Piazza,  and  before  the  down  had 
begun  to  show  on  his  lean  cheeks,  his  mother  was  a  lost 
and  abandoned  woman. 

But  not  yet  had  the  Deemster  broken  his  fate.  When 
Ewan  disappointed  his  hopes  and  went  into  the  Church, 
and  married  without  his  sanction  or  knowledge,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  chain  was  gradually  tightening  about  him. 
Then  the  Deemster  went  over  once  more  to  the  cottage  at 
the  Cross  Vein,  alone,  and  in  the  night. 

“  Mrs.  Kerruish,”  he  said,  u  I  am  willing  to  allow  you  six 
pounds  a  year  pension,  and  I  will  pay  it  in  three  pound 
notes  on  Lady  Day  and  Martinmas,"  and  putting  his  first 
payment  on  the  table  he  turned  about  and  was  gone  be¬ 
fore  the  rheumatic  old  body  could  twist  in  her  chair. 

The  Deemster  had  just  made  his  third  visit  to  the  cot¬ 
tage  at  the  Cross  Vein,  and  left  his  second  payment,  when 
the  death  of  Ewan's  young  wife  came  as  a  thunderbolt  and 
startled  him  to  the  soul.  For  days  and  nights  thereafter 
be  went  about  like  a  beaten  horse,  trembling  to  the  very 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


I04 

bone.  He  had  resisted  the  truth  for  twenty  years  ;  he  had 
laughed  at  it  in  his  long  lingering  laugh  at  going  to  bed 
at  night  and  at  rising  in  the  morning ;  he  had  ridiculed 
superstition  in  others,  and  punished  it  when  he  could  ;  he 
was  the  judge  of  the  island,  and  she  through  whose  mouth 
his  fate  fell  upon  him  was  a  miserable  ruin  cast  aside  on 
life’s  highway  ;  but  the  truth  would  be  resisted  no  longer  : 
the  house  over  his  head  was  accursed — accursed  to  him, 
and  to  his  children,  and  to  his  children’s  children. 

The  Deemster’s  engrossing  idea  became  a  dominating 
terror.  Was  there  no  way  left  to  him  to  break  the  fate 
that  hung  over  him  ?  None  ?  The  Deemster  revolved  the 
problem  night  and  day,  and  meantime  lived  the  life  of  the 
damned.  At  length  he  hit  on  a  plan,  and  then  peace 
seemed  to  come  to  him,  a  poor  paltering  show  of  peace, 
and  he  went  about  no  longer  like  a  beaten  and  broken 
horse.  His  project  was  a  strange  one  ;  it  was  the  last  that 
prudence  would  have  suggested,  but  the  first  that  the  evil 
spirit  of  his  destiny  could  have  hoped  for — it  was  to  send 
to  Liverpool  for  Jarvis  Kerruish,  and  establish  him  in 
Ballamona  as  his  son. 

In  that  project  the  hand  of  his  fate  was  strongly  upon 
him  ;  he  could  not  resist  it ;  he  seemed  to  yield  himself  to 
its  power ;  he  made  himself  its  willing  victim  ;  he  was 
even  as  Saul  when  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  had  gone  from 
him  and  an  evil  spirit  troubled  him,  sending  for  the 
anointed  son  of  Jesse  to  play  on  the  harp  to  him  and  to 
supplant  him  on  the  throne. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  LIE  THAT  EWAN  TOLD. 

It  was  not  for  long  that  Dan  bore  the  signs  of  contrition. 
As  soon  as  Ewan’s  pale  face  had  lost  the  weight  of  its 
gloom,  Dan’s  curly  poll  knew  no  more  of  trouble.  He 
followed  the  herrings  all  through  that  season,  grew  brown 
with  the  sun  and  the  briny  air,  and  caught  the  seas  laugh¬ 
ter  in  his  rollicking  voice.  He  drifted  into  some  bad 
habits  from  which  he  had  hitherto  held  himself  in  check. 
Every  morning  when  the  boats  ran  into  harbor,  and  Teare, 
the  mate,  and  Crennel,  the  cook,  stayed  behind  to  sell  the 
fish,  Dan  and  old  Billy  Quilleash  trooped  up  to  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


IOS 

u  Three  Legs  of  Man  ”  together.  There  Dan  was  made 
much  of,  and  the  lad’s  spirit  was  not  proof  against  the 
poor  flattery.  It  was  Mastha  Dan  here,  and  Mastha  Dan 
there,  and  Where  is  Mastha  Dan  ?  and  What  does  Mastha 
Dan  say  ?  and  great  shoutings,  and  tearings,  and  sprees  ; 
and  all  the  time  the  old  cat  with  the  whiskers  who  kept 
the  pot-house  was  scoring  up  against  Dan  at  the  back  of 
the  cupboard  door. 

Did  the  Bishop  know  ?  Know  r  Did  ever  a  young  fel¬ 
low  go  to  the  dogs  but  some  old  woman  of  either  sex  found 
her  way  to  the  very  ear  that  ought  not  to  be  tormented 
with  Job’s  comfort,  and  whisper,  “  Aw,  dear  !  aw,  dear  !  ” 
and  “  Lawk-a-day  !  ”  and  “  I’m  the  last  to  bring  bad 
newses,  as  the  saying  is,”  and  “  Och,  and  it’s  a  pity,  and 
him  a  fine,  brave  young  fellow  too  !  ”  and  “  I  wouldn’t  have 
told  it  on  no  account  to  another  living  soul !  ” 

The  Bishop  said  little,  and  tried  not  to  hear  ;  but  when 
Dan  would  have  hoodwinked  him,  he  saw  through  the  de¬ 
vice  as  the  sun  sees  through  glass.  Dan  never  left  his 
father’s  presence  without  a  sense  of  shame  that  was  harder 
to  bear  than  any  reproach  would  have  been.  Something 
patient  and  trustful,  and  strong  in  hope,  and  stronger  in 
love,  seemed  to  go  out  from  the  Bishop’s  silence  to  Dan’s 
reticence.  Dan  would  slink  off  w.ith  the  bearing  of  a 
whipped  hound,  or,  perhaps,  with  a  muttered  curse  under 
his  teeth,  and  always  with  a  stern  resolve  to  pitch  himself 
or  his  cronies  straightway  into  the  sea.  The  tragical  pur¬ 
pose  usually  lasted  him  over  the  short  mile  and  a  half  that 
divided  Bishop’s  Court  from  the  “  Three  Legs  of  Man,” 
and  then  it  went  down  with  some  other  troubles  and  a  long 
pint  of  Manx  jough. 

Of  all  men,  the  most  prompt  to  keep  the  Bishop  in¬ 
formed  of  Dan’s  sad  pranks  was  no  other  than  the  Deem¬ 
ster.  Since  the  death  of  Ewan’s  wife  the  Deemster’s  feel¬ 
ings  toward  Dan  had  undergone  a  complete  change.  From 
that  time  forward  he  looked  on  Dan  with  eyes  of  distrust, 
amounting  in  its  intensity  to  hatred.  He  forbade  him  his 
hpuse,  though  Dan  laughed  at  the  prohibition  and  ignored 
it.  He  also  went  across  to  Bishop’s  Court  for  the  first  time 
for  ten  years,  and  poured  into  the  Bishop’s  ears  the  story 
of  every  bad  bit  of  business  in  which  Dan  got  involved. 
Dan  kept  him  fully  employed  in  this  regard,  and  Bishop’s 
Court  saw  the  Deemster  at  frequent  intervals. 

If  it  was  degrading  to  the  Bishop’s  place  as  father  of 
the  Church  that  his  son  should  consort  with  all  the  “  rag* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


lo 6 

gabash M  of  the  island,  the  scum  of  the  land,  and  the 
dirtiest  froth  of  the  sea,  the  Bishop  was  made  to  know  the 
full  bitterness  of  that  degradation.  He  would  listen  with 
head  held  down,  and.  when  the  Deemster,  passing  from  re¬ 
monstrance  to  reproach,  would  call  upon  him  to  set  his 
own  house  in  order  before  he  ever  ascended  the  pulpit 
again,  the  Bishop  would  lift  his  grpat  heavy  eyes  with  an 
agonized  look  of  appeal,  and  answer  in  a  voice  like  a  sob, 
“  Have  patience,  Thorkell — have  patience  with  the  lad  ;  he 
is  my  son,  my  only  son.” 

It  chanced  that  toward  the  end  of  the  herring  season  an 
old  man  of  eighty,  one  William  Callow,  died,  and  he  was 
the  captain  of  the  parish  of  Michael.  The  captaincy  was  a 
semi-civil,  semi-military  office,  and  it  included  the  functions 
of  parish  head-constable.  Callow  had  been  a  man  of  extreme 
probity,  and  his  walk  in  life  had  been  without  a  slip.  “  The 
ould  man’s  left  no  living  craythur  to  fill  his  shoes,”  the 
people  said  when  they  buried  him,  but  when  the  name  of 
the  old  man’s  successor  came  down  from  Castletown,  who 
should  be  the  new  captain  but  Daniel  Mylrea  ?  The  peo¬ 
ple  were  amazed,  the  Deemster  laughed  in  his  throat,  and 
Dan  himself  looked  appalled. 

Hardly  a  month  after  this  event,  the  relations  of  Dan 
and  the  Deemster,  and  Dan  and  the  Bishop,  reached  a 
climax. 

For  months  past  the  Bishop  had  been  hatching  a 
scheme  for  the  subdivision  of  his  episcopal  glebe,  the 
large  extent  of  which  had  long  been  a  burden  on  the 
dwindling  energies  of  his  advancing  age  ;  and  he  had  de¬ 
termined  that,  since  his  son  was  not  to  be  a  minister  of 
the  Church,  he  should  be  its  tenant,  and  farm  its  lands. 
So  he  cut  off  from  the  demesne  a  farm  of  eighty  acres 
of  fine  Curragh  land,  well  drained  and  tilled.  This  would 
be  a  stay  and  a  solid  source  of  livelihood  to  Dan  when  the 
herring  fishing  had  ceased  to  be  a  pastime.  There  was  no 
farm-house  on  the  eighty  acres,  but  barns  and  stables  were 
to  be  erected,  and  Dan  was  to  share  with  Ewan  the  old 
Ballamona  as  a  home. 

Dan  witnessed  these  preparations,  but  entered  into  them 
with  only  a  moderate  enthusiasm.  The  reason  of  his  luke¬ 
warmness  was  that  he  found  himself  deeply  involved 
in  debts  whereof  his  father  knew  nothing.  When  the 
fishing  season  finished  and  the  calculations  were  made,  it 
was  found  that  the  boat  had  earned  no  more  than  £240, 
Of  this,  old  Billy  Quilleash  took  four  shares,  every  mao 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


io T 


took  two  shares,  there  was  a  share  set  aside  for  Davy,  the 
boy,  and  the  owner  was  entitled  to  eight  shares  for  him¬ 
self,  his  nets,  and  his  boat.  So  far,  all  was  reasonably  sat¬ 
isfactory.  The  difficulty  and  dissatisfaction  arose  when 
Dan  began  to  count  the  treasury.  Then  it  was  discovered 
that  there  was  not  enough  in  hand  to  pay  old  Billy  and 
his  men  and  the  boy,  leaving  Dan’s  eight  shares  out  of 
the  count. 

Dan  scratched  his  head  and  pondered.  He  was  not 
brilliant  at  figures,  but  he  totted  up  his  numbers  again 
with  the  same  result.  Then  he  computed  the  provisioning 
— tea,  at  four  shillings  a  pound,  besides  fresh  meat  four 
times  a  week,  and  fine  flour  biscuits.  It  was  heavy,  but 
not  ruinous,  and  the  season  had  been  poor,  but  not  bad, 
and,  whatever  the  net  results,  there  ought  not  to  have  been 
a  deficit  where  the  principle  of  co-operation  between  mas¬ 
ter  and  man  was  that  of  share  and  share. 

Dan  began  to  see  his  way  through  the  mystery — it  was 
most  painfully  transparent  in  the  light  of  the  score  that 
had  been  chalked  up»from  time  to  time  on  the  inside  of 
the  cupboard  of  the  “  Three  Legs  of  Man.”  But  it  was 
easier  to  see  where  the  money  had  gone  than  to  make  it 
up,  and  old  Billy  and  his  chums  began  to  mutter  and  to 
grumble. 

“It's  raely  wuss  till  ever,”  said  one. 

“  The  tack  we’ve  been  on  hasn’t  been  worth  workin’,”  said 
another. 

Dan  heard  their  murmurs,  and  went  up  to  Bishop’s 
Court.  After  all,  the  deficit  was  only  forty  pounds,  and 
his  father  would  lend  him  that  much.  But  hardly  had 
Dan  sat  down  to  breakfast  than  the  Bishop,  who  was 
clearly  in  lower  spirits  than  usual,  began  to  lament  that 
his  charities  to  the  poor  had  been  interrupted  by  the  cost 
of  building  the  barns  and  stables  on  the  farm  intended  for 
his  son. 

“  I  hope  your  fishing  will  turn  out  well,  Dan,”  he  said, 
“for  I’ve  scarce  a  pound  in  hand  to  start  you.” 

So  Dan  said  nothing  about  the  debt,  and  went  back  to 
the  fisher-fellows  with  a  face  as  long  as  a  haddock’s.  “  I’ll 
tell  you,  men,  the  storm  is  coming,”  he  said. 

Old  Billy  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  and  answered  with 
an  impatient  gesture,  “  Then  keep  your  weather  eye  liftin’, 
that’s  all.” 

Dan  measured  the  old  salt  from  head  to  foot,  and  hitched 

his  hand  into  his  guernsey.  “  You  wouldn't  talk  to  me  lik9 


rH£  DEEMSTRk. 


that,  Billy  Quilleash,  if  I  hadn’t  been  a  fool  with  you.  It’s 
4  true  saying,  that  when  you  tell  your  servant  your  secret 
you  make  him  your  master.” 

Old  Billy  sniggered,  and  his  men  snorted.  Billy  wanted 
to  know  why  he  had  left  Kinvig’s  boat,  where  he  had  a 
sure  thirty  pounds  for  his  season;  and  Ned  Teare  wished 
to  be  told  what  his  missus  would  say  when  he  took  her 
five  pound  ten  ;  and  Crennel,  the  slushy,  asked  what  sort 
of  a  season  the  mastha  was  aftha  callin’  it,  at  all,  at  all. 

Not  a  man  of  them  remembered  his  share  of  the  long 
scores  chalked  up  on  the  inside  of  the  cupboard  door. 

“  Poor  old  dad,”  thought  Dan,  “  he  must  find  the  money 
after  all — no  way  but  that,”  and  once  again  he  turned 
toward  Bishop’s  Court. 

Billy  Quilleash  saw  him  going  off,  and  followed  him. 
“  I’ve  somethin’  terrible  fine  up  here,”  said  Billy,  tapping 
his  forehead  mysteriously. 

“  What  is  it  ?”  Dan  asked. 

“  Och,  a  shockin’  powerful  schame.  It’ll  get  you  out  of 
the  shoal  water  anyways,”  said  Billy/ 

It  turned  out  that  the  “shockin’  powerful  schame”  was 
the  ancient  device  of  borrowing  the  money  from  a  money¬ 
lender.  Old  Billy  knew  the  very  man  to  serve  the  turn. 
His  name  was  Kisseck,  and  he  kept  the  “Jolly  Herrings” 
in  Peeltown,  near  the  bottom  of  the  crabbed  little  thorough¬ 
fare  that  wound  and  twisted  and  descended  to  that  part  of 
the  quay  which  overlooked  the  castle  rock. 

“  No,  no  ;  that’ll  not  do,”  said  Dan. 

“  Aw,  and  why  not  at  all  ?  ” 

“  Why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  Because  it’s  blank  robbery  to 
borrow  what  you  can’t  pay  back.” 

“Robbery?  Now,  what’s  the  use  of  sayin*  the  like  o’ 
that  ?  Aw,  the  shockin’  notions  !  Well,  well,  and  do  you 
raejy  think  a  person’s  got  no  feelin's  ?  Robbery  ?  Aw, 
well  now,  well  now.” 

And  old  Billy  tramped  along  with  the  air  of  an  injured 
man. 

But  the  end  of  it  was  that  Dan  said  nothing  to  the  Bish¬ 
op  that  day,  and  the  same  night  found  him  at  the  “Jolly 
Herrings.”  The  landlord  had  nothing  to  lend,  not  he,  but 
he  knew  people  who  would  not  mind  parting  with  money 
on  good  security,  or  on  anybody’s  bail,  as  the  sayin’  was. 
Couldn’t  Mastha  Dan  get  a  good  man’s  name  to  a  bit  o’ 
pjgper,  like  ?  Coorse  he  could,  and  nothing  easier,  for  a 
grmTqyui  as  hyp.  Who  was  the  people  ?  They  be- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


xog 


longed  to  Liverpool,  the  Goree  Peaizy — Berras  they  were 
callin’  them. 

Three  days  afterward  the  forty  pounds,  made  up  to  fifty 
for  round  numbers,  came  to  Kisseck,  the  landlord,  and  the 
bit  o'  paper  came  with  it.  Dan  took  the  paper  and  went 
off  with  it  to  the  old  Ballamona.  Ewan  would  go  bail  for 
him,  and  so  the  Bishop  need  know  nothing  of  the  muddle. 
But  when  Dan  reached  his  new  home  Ewan  was  away — a 
poor  old  Quaker  named  Christian,  who  had  brought  him¬ 
self  to  beggary  by  neglecting  Solomon’s  injunction  against 
suretyship,  was  dying,  and  had  sent  for  the  parson. 

Dan  was  in  a  hurry ;  the  fisher-fellows  were  grumbling, 
and  their  wives  were  hanging  close  about  their  coat-tails  ; 
the  money  must  be  got  without  delay,  and  of  course  Ewan 
would  sign  for  it  straightaway  if  he  were  there.  An  idea 
struck  Dan,  and  made  the  sweat  to  start  from  his  fore¬ 
head.  He  had  put  the  paper  on  the  table  and  taken  up 
a  pen,  when  he  heard  Ewan’s  voice  outside,  and  then  he 
threw  the  pen  down  and  his  heart  leaped  with  a  sense  of 
relief. 

Ewan  came  in,  and  rattled  on  about  old  Christian,  the 
Quaker.  He  hadn’t  a  week  to  live,  poor  old  soul,  and  he 
hadn’t  a  shilling  left  in  the  world.  Once  he  farmed  his 
hundred  acres,  but  he  had  stood  surety  for  this  man  and 
surety  for  that  man,  and  paid  up  the  defalcations  of  both, 
and  now,  while  they  were  eating  the  bread  of  luxury,  he 
was  dying  as  a  homeless  pauper. 

u  Well,  he  has  been  practising  a  bad  virtue,”  said  Ewan. 
“  I  wouldn’t  stand  surety  for  my  own  brother — not  for  my 
own  brother  if  I  had  one.  It  would  be  helping  him  to  eat 
to-day  the  bread  he  earns  to-morrow.” 

Dan  went  out  without  saying  anything  of  the  bit  of  paper 
from  Liverpool.  The  fisher-fellows  met  him,  and  when 
they  heard  what  he  had  to  say  their  grumblings  broke  out 
again. 

“  Well,  I’m  off  for  the  Bishop — and  no  disrespec’,”  said 
old  Billy. 

He  did  not  go  ;  the  bit  o’  paper  was  signed,  but  not  by 
Ewan  ;  the  money  was  paid  ;  the  grateful  sea-dogs  were 
sent  home  with  their  wages  in  their  pockets  and  a  smart 
tuff  on  either  ear. 

A  month  or  two  went  by,  and  Dan  grew  quiet  and 
thoughtful,  and  sometimes  gloomy,  and  people  began  to 
say,  “  It’s  none  so  wild  the  young  mastha  is  at  all  at  all,’* 
pr  perhaps,  “  Wonderful  studdy  he’s  growing,”  or  eveiv  “I 


no 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


wouldn’t  tru^Pbut  he’ll  turn  out  a  parson  after  all.”  One 
day  in  November  Dan  went  over  to  new  Ballamona  and 
asked  for  Mona,  and  sat  with  her  in  earnest  talk.  He  told 
her  of  some  impending  disaster,  and  she  listened  with  a 
whitening  face. 

From  that  day  forward  Mona  was  a  changed  woman. 
She  seemed  to  share  some  great  burden  of  fear  with  Dan, 
and  it  lay  heavy  upon  her,  and  made  the  way  of  life  very 
long  and  cheerless  to  the  sweet  and  silent  girl. 

Toward  the  beginning  of  December,  sundry  letters  came 
out  of  their  season  from  the  young  clerk  of  Benas  Broth¬ 
ers,  Jarvis  Kerruish.  Then  the  Deemster  went  over  more 
than  once  to  Bishop’s  Court,  and  had  grave  interviews  with 
the  Bishop. 

“If  you  can  prove  this  that  you  say,  Thorkell,  I  shall 
turn  my  back  on  him  for  ever — yes,  for  ever,”  said  the 
Bishop,  and  his  voice  was  husky  and  his  sad  face  was 
seamed  with  lines  of  pain. 

A  few  days  passed  and  a  stranger  appeared  at  Balla¬ 
mona,  and  when  the  stranger  had  gone  the  Deemster  said 
to  Mona,  “  Be  ready  to  go  to  Bishop’s  Court  with  me  in 
the  morning.” 

Mona’s  breath  seemed  to  be  suddenly  arrested.  “Will 
Ewan  be  there  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“Yes — isn’t  it  the  day  of  his  week-day  service  at  the 
chapel — Wednesday — isn't  it  ?” 

“And  Dan?”  she  said. 

“  Dan  ?  Why  Dan  ?  Well,  woman,  perhaps  Dan  too — 
who  knows  ?  ” 

The  Bishop  had  sent  across  to  the  old  Ballamona  to  say 
that  he  wished  to  see  his  son  in  the  library  after  service 
on  the  following  morning. 

At  twelve  next  day,  Dan,  who  had  been  ploughing, 
turned  in  at  Bishop’s  Court  in  his  long  boots  and  rough 
red  shirt,  and  there  in  the  library  he  found  Mona  and  the 
Deemster  seated.  Mona  did  not  speak  when  Dan  spoke 
to  her.  Her  voice  seemed  to  fail ;  but  the  Deemster  an¬ 
swered  in  a  jaunty  word  or  two ;  and  then  the  Bishop, 
looking  very  thoughtful,  came  in  with  Ewan,  whose  eyes 
were  brighter  than  they  had  been  for  many  a  day,  and  be¬ 
hind  them  walked  the  stranger  whom  Mona  had  seen  at 
Ballamona  the  day  before. 

“  Why,  and  how’s  this  ?  ”  said  Ewan,  on  perceiving  that 
60  many  of  them  were  gathered  there. 

The  Bishop  closed  tne  door,  and  then  answered,  with 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 


averted  face,  “We  have  a  painful  interview  before  us, 
Ewan — be  seated.  ”  , 

It  was  a  dark  day  ;  the  clouds  hung  low,  and  the  dull 
rumble  of  the  sea  came  through  the  dead  air.  A  fire  of 
logs  and  peat  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  the  Deemster 
rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  his  hands  interlaced  be¬ 
hind  him.  The  Bishop  sat  on  his  brass-clamped  chair  at 
the  table,  and  rested  liis  pale  cheek  on  his  hand.  There 
was  a  pause,  and  then  without  lifting  his  eyes  the  Bishop 
said,  “  Ewan,  do  you  know  that  it  is  contrary  to  the  cus¬ 
toms  of  the  Church  for  a  minister  to  stand  security  for  a 
debtor  ?  ’’ 

Ewan  was  standing  by  the  table,  fumbling  the  covers  of 
a  book  that  he  had  lifted.  “  I  know  it,”  he  said,  quietly. 

“Do  you  know  that  the  minister  who  disregards  that 
custom  stands  liable  to  suspension  at  the  hands  of  his 
Bishop?” 

Ewan  looked  about  with  a  stare  of  bewilderment,  but  he 
answered  again,  and  as  quietly,  “  I  know  it.” 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Deem¬ 
ster,  clearing  his  throat  noisily,  turned  to  where  Dan  was 
pawing  up  a  rug  that  lay  under  a  column  and  bust  of 
Bunyan. 

«  And  do  you  know,  sir,”  said  the  Deemster,  in  his  shrill 
tones,  “what  the  punishment  of  forgery  may  be  ?” 

Dan’s  face  had  undergone  some  changes  during  the  last 
few  minutes,  but  when  he  lifted  it  to  the  Deemster’s,  it  was 
as  firm  as  a  rock. 

“  Hanging,  perhaps,”  he  answered,  sullenly ;  transpor¬ 
tation,  perhaps.  What  of  it?  Out  with  it — be  quick.” 

Dan’s  eyes  flashed  ;  the  Deemster  tittered  audibly ;  the 
Bishop  looked  up  at  his  son  from  under  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles  and  drew  a  long  breath.  Mona  had  covered 
her  face  in  her  hands  where  she  sat  in  silence  by  the  ingle, 
and  Ewan,  still  fumbling  the  book  in  his  nervous  fingers, 
was  glancing  from  Dan  to  the  Deemster,  and  from  the 
Bishop  to  Dan,  with  a  look  of  blank  amazement. 

The  Deemster  motioned  to  the  stranger,  who  thereupon 
advanced  from  where  he  had  stood  by  the  door,  and  stepped 
up  to  Ewan. 

“May  I  ask  if  this  document  was  drawn  by  your  author¬ 
ity  ?  ”  and  saying  this  the  stranger  held  out  a  paper,  and 
Ewan  took  it  in  his  listless  fingers. 

There  was  a  moment’s  silence.  Ewan  glanced  down  at 
the  document.  It  showed  that  fifty  pounds  had  been  lent 


II* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


to  Daniel  Mylrea,  by  Benas  Brothers,  of  the  Goree  Piazza, 
Liverpool,  and  it  was  signed  by  Ewan's  own  name  as  that 
of  surety. 

“  Is  that  your  signature  ?”  asked  the  stranger. 

Ewan  glanced  at  Dan,  and  Dan’s  head  was  on  his  breast 
and  his  lips  quivered.  The  Bishop  was  trembling  visibly, 
and  sat  with  head  bent  low  by  the  sorrow  of  a  wrecked 
and  shattered  hope. 

The  stranger  looked  from  Ewan  to  Dan,  and  from  Dan 
to  the  Bishop.  The  Deemster  gazed  steadily  before  him, 
and  his  face  wore  a  ghostly  smile. 

“Is  it  your  signature?”  repeated  the  stranger,  and  his 
words  fell  on  the  silence  like  the  clank  of  a  chain. 

Ewan  saw  it  all  now.  He  glanced  again  at  the  docu¬ 
ment,  but  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  he  could  read  nothing. 
Then  he  lifted  his  face,  and  its  lines  of  agony  told  of  a  ter¬ 
rible  struggle. 

“Yes,”  he  answered,  “the  signature  is  mine — what  of 
it?” 

At  that  the  Bishop  and  Mona  raised  their  eyes  together. 
The  stranger  looked  incredulous. 

“  It  is  quite  right  if  you  say  so,”  the  stranger  replied,  with 
a  cold  smile. 

Ewan  trembled  in  every  limb.  “  I  do  say  so,”  he  said. 

His  fingers  crumpled  the  document  as  he  spoke,  but  his 
head  was  erect,  and  the  truth  seemed  to  sit  on  his  lips. 
Dan  dropped  heavily  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

The  stranger  smiled  again  the  same  cold  smile,  “The 
lenders  wish  to  withdraw  the  loan,”  he  said. 

“  They  may  do  so — in  a  month,”  said  Ewan. 

“That  will  suffice." 

The  Deemster’s  face  twitched  ;  Mona’s  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears  ;  the  Bishop  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  window, 
and  was  gazing  out  through  blurred  eyes  into  the  blinding 
rain  that  was  now  pelting  against  the  glass. 

“  It  would  be  cruel  to  prolong  a  painful  interview,”  said 
the  stranger  ;  and  then,  with  a  glance  toward  Dan  where 
he  sat  convulsed  with  distress  that  he  made  no  effort  to 
conceal,  he  added,  in  a  hard  tone  : 

“  Only  the  lenders  came  to  have  reasons  to  fear  that 
perhaps  the  document  had  beeri*"drawn  without  your 
knowledge.” 

Ewan  handed  the  paper  back  with  a  nerveless  hand.  He 
looked  at  the  stranger  through  swimming  eyes  and 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


«3 

gently,  but  with  an  awful  inward  effort,  “You  have  my  an* 
swer,  sir — I  knew  of  it.” 

The  stranger  bowed  and  went  out.  Dan  leapt  to  his 
feet  and  threw  his  arms  about  Ewan's  neck,  but  dared  not 
to  look  into  his  troubled  face.  Mona  covered  her  eyes 
and  sobbed. 

The  Deemster  picked  up  his  hat  to  go,  and  in  passing 
out  he  paused  in  front  of  Ewan  and  said,  in  a  bitter  whis¬ 
per  : 

“  Fool  !  fool !  You  have  taken  this  man's  part  to  your 
own  confusion." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  the  Deemster  the  Bishop 
turned  from  the  window.  “Ewan,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  like 
a  cry,  “  the  Recording  Angel  has  set  down  the  lie  you 
have  told  to-day  in  the  Book  of  Life  to  your  credit  in 
heaven." 

Then  the  Bishop  paused,  and  Dan  lifted  his  head  from 
Ewan's  neck. 

“  As  for  you,  sir,"  the  Bishop  added,  turning  to  his  son, 
“  I  am  done  with  you  for  ever — go  from  me — let  me  see 
your  face  no  more." 

Dan  went  out  of  the  room  with  bended  head. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  PLOUGHING  MATCH. 

When  Ewan  got  back  home  there  was  Dan  sitting  before 
the  fire  in  the  old  hall,  his  legs  stretched  out  before  him, 
his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  head  low  in  his 
breast,  and  his  whole  mien  indicative  of  a  crushed  and 
broken  spirit.  He  glanced  up  furtively  as  Ewan  entered, 
and  then  back  with  a  stony  stare  to  the  fire.  If  Ewan  had 
then  given  him  one  word  of  cheer,  God  knows  what  tragic 
consequences  would  have  been  spared  to  them  both.  But 
Ewan  had  saved  Dan  from  the  penalty  of  his  crime  at  the 
cost  of  truth  and  his  self-esteem. 

“  Dan,"  he  said,  “  you  and  I  must  part — we  can  be  friends 
no  longer." 

He  spoke  with  a  strong  effort,  and  the  words  seemed  to 
choke  him.  Dan  shambled  to  his  feet ;  he  appeared  to 
collect  his  thoughts  for  a  moment,  like  one  who  bad 
fainted  and  returns  to  consciousness. 

a 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


tH 

u  Mind — I  don’t  turn  you  out  of  the  house,”,  said  Ewan, 
“  only  if  we  are  to  share  this  place  together  we  must  be 
strangers.” 

A  hard  smile  broke  out  on  Dan’s  face.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  speak,  but  not  a  word  would  come.  He 
twisted  slowly  on  his  heel,  and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door 
that  led  to  the  inner  part  of  the  house. 

“  One  thing  more,”  said  Ewan,  speaking  quickly,  and  la 
a  tremulous  voice,  “  I  will  ask  you  to  look  upon  yourself 
as  a  stranger  to  my  sister  also.” 

Dan  stopped  and  turned  about.  Over  the  forced  smile 
his  hard  face  told  of  a  great  struggle  for  self-command. 
He  said  nothing,  and  after  a  moment  he  went  out,  drawing 
his  breath  audibly. 

Then  straightway  Ewan  flung  himself  into  the  chair 
from  which  Dan  had  risen,  and  his  slight  frame  shook 
with  suppressed  sobs.  After  some  minutes  the  sense  of 
his  own  degradation  diminished,  and  left  room  for  a  just 
idea  of  Dan’s  abject  humiliation.  “  I  have  gone  too  far,” 
he  thought  ;  “  I  will  make  amends.”  He  had  risen  to  fol¬ 
low  Dan,  when  another  thought  trod  heavily  on  the  heels 
of  the  first.  “  Leave  him  alone,  it  will  be  best  for  himself 
— leave  him  alone,  for  his  own  sake.”  And  so,  with  the 
madness  of  wrath  fermenting  in  his  own  brain,  he  left  it  to 
ferment  in  Dan’s  brain  as  well. 

Now,  when  Dan  found  himself  left  alone  he  tried  to 
carry  off  his  humiliation  by  a  brave  show  of  unconcern. 
He  stayed  on  at  the  old  Ballamona,  but  he  never  bothered 
himself — not  he,  forsooth — to  talk  to  folks  who  passed  him 
on  the  stairs  without  a  word  of  greeting,  or  met  in  the  hall 
without  a  glance  of  recognition. 

It  chanced  just  then  that,  in  view  of  a  tnreatened  inva¬ 
sion,  the  authorities  were  getting  up  a  corps  of  volunteers, 
known  as  the  Manx  Fencibles,  and  that  they  called  on  the 
captains  of  the  parishes  to  establish  companies.  Dan 
threw  himself  into  this  enterprise  with  uncommon  vigor, 
took  drills  himself,  acquired  a  competent  knowledge  of 
the  rudiments  in  a  twinkling,  and  forthwith  set  himself  to 
band  together  the  young  fellows  of  his  parish.  It  was  just 
the  sort  of  activity  that  Dan  wanted  at  the  moment,  and  in 
following  it  up  the  “Three  Legs”  saw  him  something 
oftener  than  before,  and  there  the  fellows  of  the  baser  sort 
drank  and  laughed  with  him,  addressing  him  sometimes  as 
captain,  but  oftener  as  Dan,  never  troubling  themselves  a 
ha’p'orth  to  put  a  handle  to  his  name. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


«s 

This  w&s  a  turn  of  events  which  Ewan  could  not  under* 
stand.  “  I  have  been  mistaken  in  the  man,”  he  thought ; 
“  there’s  no  heart  left  in  him.” 

Toward  the  middle  of  December  Jarvis  Kerruish  ar¬ 
rived  at  Ballamona,  and  forthwith  established  himself 
there  in  a  position  that  would  have  been  proper  to  the 
Deemster’s  heir.  He  was  a  young  man  of  medium  height 
and  size,  closely  resembling  the  Deemster  in  face  and 
figure.  His  dress  was  English  :  he  wore  a  close-fitting 
undercoat  with  tails,  and  over  it  a  loose  cloak  mounted 
with  a  brass  buckle  at  the  throat  ;  he  had  a  beaver  hat 
of  the  shape  of  a  sugarloaf  ;  and  boots  that  fitted  to  his 
legs  like  gloves.  His  manner  was  expansive,  and  he 
betrayed  a  complete  unconsciousness  of  the  sinister  bar  of 
his  birth,  and  of  the  false  position  he  had  taken  up  in  the 
Deemster’s  house.  He  showed  no  desire  to  visit  the  cot¬ 
tage  at  the  Cross  Vein  ;  and  he  spoke  of  the  poor  with 
condescension.  When  he  met  with  Ewan  he  displayed  no 
uneasiness,  and  Ewan  on  his  part  gave  no  sign  of  resent¬ 
ment.  Mona,  on  the  other  hand,  betrayed  an  instinctive 
repulsion,  and  in  less  than  a  week  from  his  coming  their 
relations  had  reached  an  extraordinary  crisis,  which  in¬ 
volved  Ewan  and  Dan  and  herself  in  terrible  consequences. 
This  is  what  occurred. 

On  the  day  before  Christmas  Day  there  was  to  be  a 
ploughing  match  in  a  meadow  over  the  Head,  and  Ewan 
stood  pledged  by  an  old  promise  to  act  as  judge.  The 
day  came,  and  it  was  a  heavy  day,  with  snow-clouds  hang¬ 
ing  overhead,  and  misty  vapors  floating  down  from  the 
hills  and  up  from  the  Curraghs,  and  hiding  them.  At  ten 
in  the  morning  Mona  muffled  herself  in  a  great  cloak,  and 
went  over  to  the  meadow  with  Ewan.  There  a  crowd  had 
already  gathered,  strong  men  in  blue  pilots,  old  men  in 
sheepskin  coats,  women  with  their  short  blue  camblet 
gowns  tucked  over  their  linen  caps,  boys  and  girls  on  every 
side,  all  coming  and  going  like  shadows  in  the  mist.  At 
one  end  of  the  meadow  several  pairs  of  horses  stood  yoked 
to  ploughs,  and  a  few  lads  were  in  charge  of  them.  On 
Ewan’s  arrival  there  was  a  general  movement  among  a 
group  of  men  standing  together,  and  a  respectful  saluta¬ 
tion  to  the  parson.  The  names  were  called  over  of  the 
ploughmen  who  had  entered  for  the  prize — a  pound  note 
and  a  cu.n — and  last  of  all,  there  was  a  show  of  hands  fof 
the  election  of  six  men  to  form  a  jury. 

Then  the  stretch  was  staked  out.  The  prize  was  to  tho 


1*6 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


ploughman  who  would  make  the  stretch  up  and  down  th% 
meadow  in  the  shortest  time,  cutting  the  furrows  straight- 
est,  cleanest,  and  of  the  most  regular  depth. 

When  all  was  ready,  Ewan  took  up  his  station  where  the 
first  furrow  would  be  cut  into  the  field,  with  Mona  at  his 
side,  and  the  six  jurors  about  him.  The  first  ploughman 
to  bring  up  his  plough  was  a  brawny  young  fellow  with  a 
tanned  face.  The  ploughman  had  brought  up  his  horses 
in  front  of  the  stake,  and  had  laid  hands  on  his  plough- 
handles,  and  was  measuring  the  stretch  with  his  eye  for  a 
landmark  to  sight  by,  when  Jarvis  Kerruish  came  into  the 
meadow,  and  walked  through  the  crowd,  and  took  up  a 
place  by  Mona’s  side.  There  were  audible  comments, 
and  some  racy  exclamations  as  he  pushed  through  the 
crowd,  not  lifting  an  eye  to  any  face  ;  but  he  showed  coni' 
plete  indifference,  and  began  to  talk  to  Mona  in  a  loud, 
measured  tone. 

“  Ah  !  this  is  very  gratifying,”  he  was  saying,  “  to  see  the 
peasantry  engaged  in  manly  sports — useful  sports — is,  I 
confess,  very  gratifying  to  me.” 

°  My  gough  !  ”  said  a  voice  from  one  side. 

“  Hurroo  !  ”  said  a  voice  from  the  other  side. 

“  Lawk-a-day  !  ”  came  from  behind,  in  a  shrill  female 
treble.  “  Did  ye  ever  see  a  grub  turn  butterfly  ?  ” 

Jarvis  seemed  not  to  hear.  “  Now  there  are  sports - ” 

he  began  ;  but  the  ploughman  was  shouting  to  his  horse.?, 
“  Steady,  steady,”  the  plough  was  dipping  into  the  suc¬ 
culent  grass,  the  first  swish  of  the  upturned  soil  was  in  the 
air,  and  Jarvis’s  wise  words  were  lost. 

All  eyes  were  on  the  bent  back  of  the  ploughman  plod¬ 
ding  on  in  the  mist.  u  He  cuts  like  a  razor,”  said  one  of 
the  spectators.  “  He  bears  his  hand  too  much  on,”  said 
another.  u  Do  better  yourself  next  spell,”  said  a  third. 

When  the  horses  reached  the  far  end  of  the  stretch  the 
ploughman  whipped  them  round  like  the  turn  of  a  wheel, 
and  in  another  moment  he  was  toiling  back,  steadily, 
firmly,  his  hand  rigid,  and  his  face  set  hard.  When  he  got 
back  to  where  Ewan,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  stood 
surrounded  by  the  jurors,  he  was  covered  with  sweat. 
°  Good,  very  good— six  minutes  ten  seconds,”  said  Ewan, 
and  there  were  some  plaudits  from  the  people  looking 
on,  and  some  banter  of  the  competitors  who  came  up  to 
follow. 

Jarvis  Kerruish,  at  Mona’s  elbow,  was  beginning  again, 
"  I  confess  that  it  has  always  been  my  personal  opin« 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


tt7 

Jon— ^  but  in  the  bustle  of  another  pair  of  horses 
whipped  up  to  the  stake  no  one  seemed  to  be  aware  that 
he  was  speaking. 

Five  ploughmen  came  in  succession,  but  all  were  behind 
the  first  in  time  and  cut  a  less  regular  furrow.  So  Ewan 
and  the  jurors  announced  that  the  prize  was  to  the 
stranger.  Then  as  Ewan  twisted  about,  his  adjudication 
finished,  to  where  Mona  stood  with  Jarvis  by  her  side, 
there  was  a  general  rush  of  competitors  and  spectators  to 
a  corner  of  the  meadow,  where,  from  a  little  square  cart, 
the  buirdly  stranger  who  was  victor  proceeded  to  serve 
out  glasses  of  ale  from  a  small  barrel. 

While  this  was  going  on,  and  there  was  some  laughter 
and  shouting  and  singing,  there  came  a  loud  Hello  !  as  of 
many  voices  from  a  little  distance,  and  then  the  beat  of 
many  irregular  feet,  and  one  of  the  lads  in  the  crowd,  who 
had  jumped  to  the  top  of  the  broad  turf  hedge,  shouted, 
“  It’s  the  capt’n — it's  Mastha  Dan.” 

In  another  half-minute,  Dan  and  some  fifty  or  sixty  of 
the  scum  of  the  parish  came  tumbling  into  the  meadow  on 
all  sides — over  the  hedge,  over  the  gate,  and  tearing 
through  the  gaps  in  the  gorse.  They  were  the  corps  that 
Dan  had  banded  together  toward  the  Manx  Fencibles,  but 
the  only  regimentals  they  yet  wore  were  a  leather  belt, 
and  the  only  implement  of  war  they  yet  carried  was  the 
small  dagger  that  was  fitted  into  the  belt.  That  morning 
they  had  been  drilling,  and  after  drill  they  had  set  off  to 
see  the  ploughing  match,  and  on  the  way  they  had  passed 
the  “  Three  Legs,”  and  being  exceeding  dry,  they  had 
drawn  up  in  front  thereof,  and  every  man  had  been  served 
with  a  glass,  which  had  been  duly  scored  off  to  the  cap¬ 
tain's  account. 

Dan  saw  Mona  with  Ewan  as  he  vaulted  the  gate,  but 
he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition,  and  in  a  moment  he  was 
in  the  thick  of  the  throng  at  the  side  of  the  cart,  hearing 
all  about  the  match,  and  making  loud  comments  upon  it 
in  his  broadest  homespun. 

“What!”  he  said,  “and  you've  let  yourselves  be  bate 
by  a  craythurlike  that.  Hurroo  !  ” 

He  strode  up  to  the  stranger’s  furrow,  cocked  his  eye 
along  it,  and  then  glanced  at  the  stranger’s  horses. 

“Och,  I’ll  go  bail  I’ll  bate  it  with  a  yoke  of  oxen.” 

At  that  there  was  a  movement  of  the  crowd  around  him, 
and  some  cheering,  just  to  egg  on  the  rupture  that  wad 
imminent. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


118 


The  big  stranger  heard  all,  and  strode  through  the  peo¬ 
ple  with  a  face  like  a  thunder-cloud. 

“  Who  says  he'll  bate  it  with  a  yoke  of  oxen  ?  ”  he 
asked. 

“That's  just  what  I’m  afther  saying,  my  fine  fellow. 
Have  you  anything  agen  it  ?  " 

In  half  a  minute  a  wager  had  been  laid  of  a  pound  a 
side  that  Dan,  with  a  pair  of  oxen,  would  beat  the  stran¬ 
ger  with  a  pair  of  horses  in  two  stretches  out  of  three. 

“Davyd  Davy  !"  shouted  Dan,  and  in  a  twinkling  there 
was  Davy  Fayle,  looking  queer  enough  in  his  guernsey, 
and  his  long  boots,  and  his  sea-cap,  and  withal  his  belt 
and  his  dagger.  Davy  was  sent  for  a  pair  of  oxen  to 
where  they  were  leading  manure,  not  far  away.  He  went 
off  like  a  shot,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  was  back  in  the 
meadow,  driving  the  oxen  before  him. 

Now,  these  oxen  had  been  a  gift  of  the  Bishop  to  Dan. 
They  were  old,  and  had  grown  wise  with  their  years.  For 
fifteen  years  they  had  worked  on  the  glebe  at  Bishop’s 
Court,  and  they  knew  the  dinner  hour  as  well  as  if  they 
could  have  taken  the  altitude  of  the  sun.  When  the  din¬ 
ner  bell  rang  at  the  Court  at  twelve  o'clock,  the  oxen 
would  stop  short,  no  matter  where  they  were  or  what  they 
were  doing,  and  not  another  budge  would  they  make  until 
they  had  been  unyoked  and  led  ofi  for  their  midday 
mash. 

It  was  now  only  a  few  minutes  short  of  twelve,  but  no 
one  took  note  of  that  circumstance,  and  the  oxen  were 
yoked  to  a  plough. 

44  Same  judge  and  jury,"  said  the  stranger,  but  Ewan 
excused  himself. 

“Aw,  what  matter  about  a  judge,"  said  Dan,  from  his 
plough-handles  ;  “let  the  jury  be  judge  as  well." 

Ewan  and  Mona  looked  on  in  silence  for  some  moments. 
Ewan  could  scarce  contain  himself.  There  was  Dan, 
stripped  to  his  red  flannel  shirt,  his  face  tanned  and  glow¬ 
ing,  his  whole  body  radiant  with  fresh  life  and  health,  and 
he  was  shouting  and  laughing  as  if  there  had  never  been 
a  shadow  to  darken  his  days. 

“Look  at  him,"  whispered  Ewan,  with  emotion,  in 
Mona's  ear.  “  Look  !  this  good-nature  that  seems  so 
good  to  others  is  almost  enough  to  make  me  hate  him." 

Mona  was  startled,  and  turned  to  glance  into  Ewan's 

face. 

“  Come,  let  us  go,"  said  Ewan,  with  head  aside* 


THE  DEEMSTmt. 


**9 


“Not  Vet,”  said  Mona. 

Then  Jarvis  Kerruish,  who  had  stepped  aside  for  a  mo- 
ment,  returned  and  said :  .  . 

“Will  you  take  a  wager  with  me,  Mona — a  pair  ot 

gloves  ?  ” 

“  Very  well,”  she  answered. 

“  Who  do  you  bet  on  ?  ”  .  , 

“Oh,  on  the  stranger,”  said  Mona,  coloring  slightly, 
and  laughing  a  little.  .  „ 

“  How  lucky,”  said  Jarvis,  “  I  bet  on  the  captain. 

“I  can  stand  it  no  longer,”  whispered  Ewan,  “will  you 
come?”  But  Mona’s  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  group 
about  the  oxen.  She  did  not  hear,  and  Ewan  turned 
away,  and  walked  out  of  the  meadow.  e 

Then  there  was  a  shout,  and  the  oxen  started  with  Dan 
behind  them.  On  they  went  through  the  hard,  tough 
ground,  tranquilly,  steadily,  with  measured  pace,  tearing 
through  roots  of  trees  that  lay  in  their  way  as  h  nothing 
could  stop  them  in  their  great  strength. 

When  the  oxen  got  back  after  the  first  stretch  the  time 
was  called— five  minutes  thirty  seconds— and  there  was  a 
great  cheer,  and  Mona’s  pale  face  was  triumphant. 

The  stranger  brought  up  his  horses,  and  set  off  again, 
straining  every  muscle.  He  did  his  stretch  in  six  minutes 
four  seconds,  and  another  cheer — but  it  was  a  cheer  for 
Dan— went  up  after  the  figures  were  called. 

Then  Dan  whipped  round  his  oxen  once  more,  and 
brought  them  up  to  the  stake.  The  excitement  among 
the  people  was  now  very  great.  Mona  clutched  her  cloak 
convulsively,  and  held  her  breath.  Jarvis  was  watching 
her  closely,  and  she  knew  that  his  cold  eyes  were  on  her 
face. 

“  One  would  almost  imagine  that  you  were  anxious  to 
lose  your  bet,”  he  said.  She  made  no  answer.  When 
the  oxen  started  again  her  lips  closed  tightly,  as  if  she  was 
in  pain. 

On  the  oxen  went,  and  made  the  first  half  of  the  stretch 
without  a  hitch,  and,  with  the  blade  of  the  plough  lifted, 
they  were  wheeling  over  the  furrow  end,  when  a  bell  rang 
across  the  Gurragh — it  was  the  bell  for  the  midday  meal 
at  Bishop  s  Court — and  instantly  they  came  to  a  dead  stand. 
Dan  called  to  them,  but  they  did  not  budge  ;  then  his  whip 
fcl)  heavily  across  their  snouts,  and  they  snorted,  but  stirred 
not  an  inch.  The  people  were  in  a  tumult,  and  shouted 
With  fifty  voices  at  once*  Dan’s  passion  mastered  huu* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


ICO 

He  brought  his  whip  down  over  the  flanks  atid  across  the 
eyes  and  noses  of  the  oxen  ;  they  winced  under  the  blows 
that  rained  down  on  them,  and  then  shot  away  across  the 
meadow,  tearing  up  the  furrows  they  had  made. 

Then  there  was  a  cry  of  vexation  and  anger  from  the 
people,  and  Dan,  who  had  let  go  his  reins,  strode  back  to 
the  stake.  “  I’ve  lost,”  said  Dan,  with  a  muttered  oath  at 
the  oxen. 

All  this  time  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  kept  his  eye  steadily 
fixed  on  Mona’s  twitching  face.  “  You’ve  won,  Mona,”  ho 
said,  in  a  cold  voice  and  with  an  icy  smile. 

“  I  must  go.  Where  is  Ewan  ?  ”  she  said,  tremulously, 
and  before  Jarvis  was  aware  she  had  gone  over  the  grass. 

Dan  had  heard  when  Ewan  declined  to  act  as  judge,  he 
had  seen  when  Ewan  left  the  meadow,  and,  though  he  did 
not  look,  he  knew  when  Mona  was  no  longer  there.  His 
face  was  set  hard,  and  it  glowed  red  under  his  sunburnt 
skin. 

“  Davy,  bring  them  up,”  he  said  ;  and  Davy  Fayle  led 
back  the  oxen  to  the  front  of  the  stake. 

Then  Dan  unyoked  them,  took  out  the  long  swinging  j 
tree  that  divided  them — a  heavy  wooden  bar  clamped  with 
iron — and  they  stood  free  and  began  to  nibble  the  grnsi 
under  their  feet. 

“  Look  out !  ”  he  shouted,  and  he  swung  the  bar  over  1 
his  shoulder. 

The  crowd  receded  and  left  an  open  space  in  which  s 
Dan  stood  alone  with  the  oxen,  his  great  limbs  holding  the  i 
ground  like  their  own  hoofs,  his  muscles  standing  out  like 
bulbs  on  his  bare  arms. 

“  What  is  he  going  to  do — kill  them  ?”  said  one. 

“Look  out !  ”  Dan  shouted  again,  and  in  another  moment 
there  was  the  swish  of  the  bar  through  the  air.  Then 
down  the  bar  came  on  the  forehead  of  one  of  the  oxen,  and 
it  reeled,  and  its  legs  gave  way,  and  it  fell  dead. 

The  bar  was  raised  again,  and  again  it  fell,  and  the 
second  of  the  oxen  reeled  like  the  first  and  fell  dead  beside 
its  old  yoke-fellow. 

A  cry  of  horror  ran  through  the  crowd,  but  heeding  it 
not  at  all,  Dan  threw  on  his  coat  and  buckled  his  belt  about 
him,  and  strode  through  the  people  and  out  at  the  gate. 


the  deemster. 


m 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  WRONG  WAY  WITH  DAN# 

What  happened  next  was  one  of  those  tragedies  of  be¬ 
wildering  motive,  so  common  and  so  fatal,  in  which  it  is 
impossible  to  decide  whether  evil  passion  or  evil  circum¬ 
stance  plays  the  chief  malicious  part 

Dan  walked  straight  to  the  new  Ballamona,  and  pushed 
through  the  house  without  ceremony,  as  it  had  been  his 
habit  to  do  in  other  days,  to  the  room  where  Mona  was  to 
be  found.  She  was  there,  and  she  looked  startled  at  his 

coming.  _  ,  . 

“  Is  it  you,  Dan  ?  ”  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 

He  answered  sullenly : 

“  It  is  I.  I  have  come  to  speak  with  you.  I  have  some¬ 
thing  to  say — but  no  matter - ”  # 

He  stopped  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  His  head 
ached,  his  eyes  were  hot,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  him  to 
be  in  darkness  and  confusion. 

“  Mona,  I  think  I  must  be  going  mad,”  he  stammered 
after  a  moment. 

“  Why  talk  like  that  ?”  she  said.  Her  bosom  heaved  and 
her  face  was  troubled. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  after  a  pause  turned  toward  her, 
and  said  in  a  quick,  harsh  tone,  u  You  did  not  expect  to 
see  me  here,  and  you  have  been  forbidden  to  receive  me. 
Is  it  not  so?” 

She  colored  deeply,  and  did  not  answer  at  once,  and 
then  she  began,  with  hesitation  : 

“  My  father— it  is  true,  my  father - ” 

“It  is  so,”  lie  said,  sharply.  He  got  on  to  his  feet  and 
tramped  about  the  room.  After  a  moment  he  sat  down 
again,  and  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  in 
his  hands. 

“  But  what  of  Ewan  ?”  he  asked. 

“  Ewan  loves  you,  Dan,  and  you  have  beer  at  fault,  said 
Mona,  in  broken  accents. 

“At  fault?”  # 

There  was  a  sudden  change  in  his  manner.  He  spoke 
brusquely,  even  mockingly,  and  laughed  a  short,  grating 
laugh.  , 

“  They  are  taking  the  wrong  way  with  me,  Mona— -that’s 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


the  fact,”  he  said,  and  now  his  breast  heaved  and  the  words 
came  with  difficulty. 

Mona  was  gazing  absently  out  at  the  window,  her  head 
aslant,  her  fingers  interlaced  before  her.  “  Oh,  Dan,  Dan,” 
she  murmured  in  a  low  tone,  “there  is  your  dear,  dear 
father,  and  Ewan,  and — and  myself - ” 

Dan  had  leapt  to  his  feet  again.  “  Don’t  turn  my  eyes 
into  my  head,  Mona,”  he  said. 

He  tramped  to  and  fro  in  the  room  for  a  moment  and 
then  broke  out  nervously,  “All  last  night  I  dreamt  such  an 
ugly  dream.  I  dreamt  it  three  times,  and,  O  God  !  what 
an  ugly  dream  it  was  !  It  was  a  bad  night,  and  I  was  walk¬ 
ing  in  the  dark,  and  stumbling  first  into  bogs  and  then  in 
cart  ruts,  when  all  of  a  sudden  a  man’s  hand  seized  me  un¬ 
awares.  I  could  not  see  the  man,  and  we  struggled  long 
in  the  darkness,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  master  me.  j 
He  gripped  me  by  the  waist,  and  I  held  him  by  the  shoul¬ 
ders.  We  reeled  and  fell  together,  and  when  I  would  have 
risen  his  knee  was  on  my  chest.  But  a  great  flood  of 
strength  seemed  to  come  to  me  and  I  threw  him  off,  and 
rose  to  my  feet  and  closed  with  him  again,  and  at  last  I 
was  over  him,  covering  him,  with  his  back  across  my  thigh 
and  my  hand  set  hard  in  his  throat.  .And  all  this  time  I 
heard  his  loud  breathing  in  the  darkness,  but  never  once 
the  sound  of  his  voice.  Then  instantly,  as  if  by  a  flash  of 
lightning,  I  saw  the  face  that  was  close  to  mine,  and — God. 
Almighty  !  it  was  my  own  f^Lce— my  own — and  it  was  black 
already  from  the  pressure  of  my  stiff  fingers  at  the  throat.”  ! 

He  trembled  as  he  spoke,  and  sat  again  and  shivered, 
and  a  cold  chill  ran  down  his  back. 

“  Mona,”  he  said,  half  in  a  sob,  “  do  you  believe  in 
omens  ?” 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  breast  heaved  visibly,  and  she 
could  not  speak. 

“Tush!”  he  said,  in  another  voice,  “omens  !”  and  he 
laughed  bitterly,  and  rose  again  and  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
then  said,  in  a  quieter  way,  “  Only,  as  I  say,  they’re  taking 
the  wrong  way  with  me,  Mona.” 

He  had  opened  the  door,  and  she  had  turned  her  swim¬ 
ming  eyes  toward  him.  "w  . 

“  It  was  bad  enough  to  make  himself  a  stranger  to  me, 
but  why  did  he  want  to  make  you  a  stranger,  too  ?  Stran¬ 
ger,  stranger  !  ”  He  echoed  the  word  in  a  mocking  accent, 
and  threw  back  his  head. 

“  Dan/'  said  Mona,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone,  and  tha 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


123 


linding  tears  rained  down  her  cheeks,  “  nothing  and  no 
ody  can  make  us  strangers,  you  and  me — not  my  father, 
r  your  dear  father,  or  Ewan,  or  ’—she  dropped  her  voice 
d  a  deep  whisper — “or  any  misfortune  or  any  disgrace.” 

“  Mena  !  ”  he  cried,  and  took  a  step  toward  her,  and 
tretched  out  one  arm  with  a  yearning  gesture. 

But  at  the  next  moment  he  had  swung  about,  and  was 
ping  out  at  the  door.  At  sight  of  all  that  tenderness  and 
Dyalty  in  Mona’s  face  his  conscience  smote  him  as  it  had 
.ever  smitten  him  before. 

“  Ewan  was  right,  Mona.  He  is  the  noblest  man  on 
Jod’s  earth,  and  I  am  the  foulest  beast  on  it.” 

He  was  pulling  the  door  behind  him  when  he  en- 
ountered  Jarvis  Kerruish  in  the  hall.  That  gentleman 
ad  just  come  into  the  house,  and  was  passing  through 
he  hall  in  hat  and  cloak.  He  looked  appalled  at  seeing 
)an  there,  and  stepped  aside  to  let  him  go  by  ;  but  Dan 
id  not  so  much  as  recognize  his  presence  by  lifting  his 
Lead  as  he  strode  out  at  the  porch. 

With  head  still  bent,  Dan  had  reached  the  gate  to  the 
oad  and  pushed  through  it,  and  sent  it  back  with  a  swing 
nd  a  click,  when  the  Deemster  walked  up  to  it,  and  half 
Lalted,  and  would  have  stopped.  But  Dan  went  moodily 
n,  and  the  frown  on  the  Deemster’s  wizened  face  was  lost 
n  him.  He  did  not  take  the  lane  toward  the  old  Balla- 
nona,  but  followed  the  turnpike  that  led  past  Bishop’s 
Dourt,  and  as  he  went  by  the  large  house  behind  the  trees 
Cwan  came  through  the  smaller  gate,  and  turned  toward 
he  new  Ballamona.  They  did  not  speak,  or  even  glance 
,t  each  other’s  faces. 

Dan  went  on  until  he  came  to  the  parish  church.  There 
/as  singing  within,  and  he  stopped.  He  remembered 
hat  this  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  choir  was  practising 
he  psalms  for  the  morrow’s  services. 

“  Before  I  was  troubled,  I  went  wrong  ;  but  now  have  I 
:ept  Thy  word.” 

Dan  went  up  to  the  church  porch,  and  stood  there  and 
istened. 

“  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  in  trouble,  that  I 
nay  learn  Thy  statutes.” 

The  wooden  door,  clamped  and  barred  and  worm-eaten 
ind  cut  by  knives,  was  ajar,  and  from  where  he  stood  Dan 
:ould  see  into  the  church.  There  were  the  empty  pews, 
he  gaunt,  square,  green-clad  boxes  on  which  he  had  sat 

>q  many  a  Christmas  Eve  at  Qiei  Verree,  He  cguld  pio« 


124 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


ture  the  old  place  as  it  used  to  be  in  those  days  of  hfs 
boyhood,  the  sea  of  faces,  some  solemn  and  some  bub¬ 
bling  over  with  mischief,  the  candles  with  their  ribbons, 
the  old  clerk,  Will-as-Thorn,  standing  up  behind  the  com¬ 
munion-rail  with  his  pitch-pipe  in  his  hand,  and  Hommy- 
beg,  in  his  linsey-wolsey  petticoat,  singing  lustily  from  a 
paper  held  upside  down.  The  singing  stopped.  Behind 
were  the  hills  Slieu  Dhoo  and  Slieu  Volley,  hidden  now 
under  a  thick  veil  of  mist,  and  from  across  the  flat  Cur- 
ragh  there  came  in  the  silence  the  low  moan  of  the  sea, 
“  Once  more,”  said  a  voice  within  the  church,  and  then  the 
psalm  was  sung  again.  Dan  began  to  breathe  easier,  he 
scarce  knew  why,  and  a  great  weight  seemed  to  be  lifted 
off  his  breast. 

As  he  turned  away  from  the  porch  a  heavy  web  of 
cloud  was  sweeping  on  and  sweeping  on  from  over  the 
sea.  He  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  snow-storm  was  com¬ 
ing,  and  that  the  snow-cloud  would  break  when  it  reached 
the  mountains. 

The  clock  in  the  gray  towrer  was  striking — one — two — j 
three — so  it  was  now  three  o’clock.  Dan  went  down  tow¬ 
ard  the  creek  known  as  the  Lockjaw,  under  Orris  Head. 
There  he  expected  to  see  old  Billy  Quilleash  and  his 
mates,  who  had  liberty  to  use  the  Ben-my-Chree  during 
the  winter  months  for  fishing  wTith  the  lines.  When  he  got 
to  the  creek  it  was  an  hour  after  high  water,  and  the  lug¬ 
ger,  with  Quilleash  and  Teare,  had  gone  out  for  cod.  Davy 
Fayle,  who,  like  Dan  himself,  was  still  wearing  his  militia 
belt  and  dagger,  had  been  doing  something  among  scraps 
of  net  and  bits  of  old  rope,  which  lay  in  a  shed  that  the  men 
had  thrown  together  for  the  storing  of  their  odds-and-ends. 

Davy  was  looking  out  to  sea.  Down  there  a  stiff  breeze 
was  blowing,  and  the  white  curves  of  the  breakers  outside 
could  just  be  seen  through  the  thick  atmosphere. 

“  The  storm  is  coming,  Mastha  Dan,”  said  Davy.  “  See 
the  diver  on  the  top  of  the  white  wave  out  there  !  D’ye 
hear  her  wild  note  ?  ” 

Davy  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
from  the  sea,  and  looked  up  at  the  stormy  petrel  that  \vas 
careering  over  the  head  of  the  cliff  above  them  and  utter¬ 
ing  its  dismal  cry:  “  Ay,  and  d’ye  see  Mother  Carey’s  1 
chickens  up  yonder ?”  said  Davy  again.  “The  storm’s: 
coming,  and  wonderful  quick  too.” 

Truly,  a  storm  was  coming,  and  it  was  a  storm  more 
ribk  than  wind  and  snow. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


JH 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  BLIND  WOMAN'S  SECOND  SIGHT. 

Now,  when  Jarvis  Kerruish  encountered  Dan  in  the  act 
of  coming  out  of  Mona’s  room,  his  surprise  was  due  to 
something  more  than  the  knowledge  that  Dan  had  been 
forbidden  the  house.  On  leaving  the  meadow  after  the 
ploughing  match,  and  the  slaughter  of  the  oxen  that  fol¬ 
lowed  it,  Jarvis  had  made  a  long  circuit  of  the  Curragh, 
md  returned  to  Ballamona  by  the  road.  He  had  been 
pondering  on  Mona's  deportment  during  the  exciting  part 
:>f  the  contest  between  Dan  and  the  stranger,  and  had  just 
arrived  at  obvious  conclusions  of  his  own  by  way  of  ex¬ 
plaining  the  emotion  that  she  could  not  conceal,  when  he 
recognized  that  he  was  approaching  the  cottage  occupied 
3y  Hommy-beg  and  his  wife  Kerry.  A  droning  voice  came 
from  within,  accompanied  by  some  of  the  most  doleful 
evails  that  ever  arrested  mortal  ears. 

Jarvis  was  prompted  to  stop  and  enter.  He  did  so,  and. 
found  both  the  deaf  husband  and  the  blind  wife  at  home* 
Hommy  was  squatting  on  a  low  three-legged  stool,  with 
his  fiddle  at  his  shoulder,  playing  vigorously  and  singing 
as  he  played.  It  was  Christmas  Eve  to  Hommy-beg  also, 
and  he  was  practising  the  carol  that  he  meant  to  sing  at 
the  Oiel  Verree  that  night.  Blind  Kerry  was  sitting  by 
the  fire  knitting  with  gray  yarn.  The  deaf  man’s  eyes  and 
the  blind  woman's  ears  simultaneously  announced  the  visit 
of  Jarvis,  and  as  Hommy-beg  dropped  his  fiddle  from  his 
shoulder,  Kerry  let  fall  the  needles  on  her  lap,  and  held  up 
her  hand  with  an  expression  of  concern. 

“  Och,  and  didn’t  I  say  that  something  was  happening 
at  Ballamona  ?  "  said  Kerry. 

“And  so  she  did,"  said  Hommy. 

“  I  knew  it,"  said  Kerry.  “  I  knew  it,  as  the  sayin’  is." 

All  this  in  return  for  Jarvis's  casual  visit  and  mere  salu* 
tation  surprised  him. 

“  The  sight !  The  sight !  It’s  as  true  as  the  ould  Book 
itself.  Aw,  yes,  aw,  yes,  *'  continued  Kerry,  and  she  began 
to  wring  her  hands. 

Jarvis  felt  uneasy.  ^“Do  you  know,  my  good  people," 
he  said,  largely,  “I'm#at  a  loss  to  understand  what  you 

mean.  What  is  it  that  has  happened  at  Ballamona  ? " 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


%s6 

At  that  the  face  of  the  blind  wife  looked  puzzled. 

“  Have  ye  not  come  from  Ballamona  straight  ? ”  she 
•risked. 

44  No— it's  four  hours  since  I  left  there/'  said  Jarvis. 

“Aw,  dear,  aw  dearee  dear  !  ”  said  Kerry.  “The  sight ! 
the  sight !  ” 

Jarvis’s  uneasiness  developed  into  curiosity,  and  in  an¬ 
swer  to.  many  questions  he  learned  that  blind  Kerry  had, 
that  day  been  visited  by  another  of  those  visions  of  Dan 
which  never  came  to  her  except  when  her  nursling  was  in 
some  disgrace  or  danger,  and  never  failed  to  come  to  her 
then.  On  this  occasion  the  vision  had  been  one  of  great 
sorrow,  and  Kerry  trembled  as  she  recounted  it. 

“  I  saw  him  as  plain  as  plain,  and  he  was  standing  in 
Misthress  Mona’s  room,  atween  the  bed  and  the  wee  cray- 
thur’s  cot,  and  he  went  down  on  his  knees  aside  of  it,  and 
c^ried,  and  cried,  and  cried  morthal,  and  Misthress  Mona 
herself  was  there  sobbing  her  heart  out,  as  the  sayin’  is, 
and  the  wee  craythur  was  sleeping  soft  and  quiet,  and  it 
was  dark  night  outside,  and  the  candle  was  in  the  mis- 
thress’s  hand.  Aw,  yes,  I  saw  it,  sir,  I  saw  it,  and  I  tould 
my  man  here,  and,  behould  ye,  he  said,  1  Drop  it,  woman, 
drop  it/  says  he,  4  it’s  only  drames,  it’s  only  drames/” 

Jarvis  did  not  find  the  story  a  tragic  one,  but  he  listened 
with  an  interest  that  was  all  his  own. 

“You  saw  Mr.  Dan  in  Miss  Mona’s  room — do  you  mean 
her  chamber  ?  ” 

“  Sure,  and  he  climbed  in  at  the  window,  and  white  as  a 
haddock,  and  all  amuck  with  sweat.” 

“  Climbed  in  at  the  window — the  window  of  her  cham¬ 
ber — her  bedroom — you’re  sure  it  was  her  bedroom  ?  ” 

“  Sarten  sure.  Don’t  I  know  it  same  as  my  own  bit  of 
a  place  ?  The  bed,  with  the  curtains  all  white  and  dimity, 
as  they’re  sayin’,  and  the  wee  thing’s  cot  carved  over  with 
the  lions,  and  the  tigers,  and  the  beasties,  and  the  goat’s 
rug,  and  the  sheepskin — aw,  yes,  aw,  yes.” 

The  reality  of  the  vision  had  taken  such  a  hold  of  Ker¬ 
ry  that  she  had  looked  upon  it  as  a  certain  presage  of  dis¬ 
aster,  and  when  Jarvis  had  opened  the  door  she  had  leapt 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  came  to  announce  the  catastro¬ 
phe  that  she  foresaw,  and  to  summon  her  to  Ballamona. 

Jarvis  smiled  grimly.  He  had  heard  in  the  old  days  of 
Kerry’s  second  sight,  and  now  he  laughed  at  it.  But  the 
blind  woman’s  stupid  dreams  had  given  him  an  idea,  and 
be  rose  suddenly  and  hurried  away. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Jarvis  knew  the  Deemster’s  weakness,  for  he  knew  why 
he  found  himself  where  he  was.  Stern  man  as  the  Deem¬ 
ster  might  be,  keen  of  wit  and  strong  of  soul,  Jarvis  knew 
that  there  was  one  side  of  his  mind  on  which  he  was 
feebler  than  a  child.  On  that  side  of  the  Deemster  Jarvis 
now  meant  to  play  to  his  own  end  and  profit. 

He  was  full  to  the  throat  of  the  story  which  he  had  to 
pour  into  credulous  ears,  that  never  listened  to  a  super¬ 
stitious  tale  without  laughingat  it,  and  mocking  at  it,  and 
believing  it,  when  he  stepped  into  the  hall  at  Ballamona, 
and  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  Dan,  and  saw  the 
door  of  Mona’s  sitting-room  open  before  and  close  behind 
him. 

Jarvis  was  bewildered.  Could  it  be  possible  that  there 
was  something  in  the  blind  woman’s  second  sight  ?  He 
had  scarcely  recovered  from  his  surprise  when  the  Deem¬ 
ster  walked  into  the  porch,  looking  as  black  as  a  thunder¬ 
cloud. 

“  That  man  has  been  here  again,”  he  said.  “  Why  didn’t 
you  turn  him  out  of  ^he  house  ?  ” 

“  I  have  something  to  tell  you,”  said  Jarvis. 

They  went  into  the  Deemster’s  study.  It  was  a  little 
place  to  the  left  of  the  hall,  half  under  the  stairs,  and  with 
the  fireplace  built  across  one  corner.  Over  the  mantel¬ 
shelf  a  number  of  curious  things  were  hung  from  hooks 
and  nails — a  huge  silver  watch  with  a  small  face  and  great 
seals,  a  mask,  a  blunderbuss,  a  monastic  lamp  and  a  cruci¬ 
fix,  a  piece  of  silvered  glass,  and  a  pistol. 

“  What  now  ?  ”  asked  the  Deemster. 

Jarvis  told  the  blind  woman’s  story  with  variations,  and 
the  Deemster  listened  intently,  and  with  a  look  of  deadly 
rage. 

“  And  you  saw  him  come  out  of  her  room — you  your¬ 
self  saw  him  ?”  said  the  Deemster. 

“  With  my  own  eyes,  dear  sir,”  said  Jarvis. 

The  Deemster’s  lip  quivered.  “My  God!  it  must  be 
true,”  he  said. 

At  that  moment  they  heard  a  foot  in  the  hall,  and  going 
to  the  door  in  his  restless  tramping  to  and  fro,  the  Deems¬ 
ter  saw  that  Ewan  had  come  into  the  house.  Ho  called  to 
him,  and  Ewan  went  into  the  study,  and  on  Ewan  going 
in  Jarvis  went  out. 

There  was  a  look  of  such  affright  an  the  Deemster’s  face 
that  before  a  word  was  spoken  Ewan  had  caught  the  con¬ 
tagion  of  his  father’s  terror.  Then,  grasping  his  son  by 


THE  Z>£EMSTER. 


the  wrist  in  the  intensity  of  his  passion,  the  Deemster 
poured  his  tale  into  Ewan’s  ear.  But  it  was  not  the  tale 
that  blind  Kerry  had  told  to  Jarvis,  it  was  not  the  tale  that 
Jarvis  had  told  to  him  ;  it  was  a  tale  compounded  of  su¬ 
perstition  and  of  hate.  Blind  Kerry  had  said  of  her  cer¬ 
tain  knowledge  that  Dan  was  accustomed  to  visit  Mona  in 
her  chamber  at  night  alone,  entering  in  at  the  window. 
Jarvis  Kerruish  himself  had  seen  him  there — and  that  very 
day,  not  at  night,  but  in  the  broad  daylight,  Jarvis  had  seen 
Dan  come  from  Mona’s  room.  What  ?  Had  Ewan  no 
bowels  that  he  could  submit  to  the  dishonor  of  his  own 
sister  ? 

Ewan  listened  to  the  hot  words  that  came  from  his 
father  in  a  rapid  and  ceaseless  whirl.  The  story  was  all  so 
fatally  circumstantial  as  the  Deemster  told  it  ;  no  visions  ; 
no  sights  ;  no  sneezings  of  an  old  woman  ;  all  was  clear, 
hard,  deadly,  damning  circumstance,  or  seemed  to  be  so 
to  Ewan’s  heated  brain  and  poisoned  heart. 

“  Father,”  he  said,  very  quietly,  but  with  visible  emotion, 
li  you  are  my  father,  but  there  are  only  two  persons  alive 
from  whose  lips  I  would  take  a  story  like  this,  and  you  are 
not  one  of  them/’ 

At  that  word  the  Deemster’s  passion  overcame  him. 
11  My  God,”  he  cried,  “  what  have  I  done  that  I  should  not 
be  believed  by  my  own  son  ?  Would  I  slander  my  own 
daughter  ?  ” 

But  Ewan  did  not  hear  him.  He  had  turned  away,  and 
was  going  toward  the  door  of  Mona’s  room.  He  moved 
slowly  ;  there  was  an  awful  silence.  Full  half  a  minute 
his  hand  rested  on  the  door  handle,  and  only  then  did  his 
nervous  fingers  turn  it. 

He  stepped  into  the  room.  The  room  was  empty.  It 
was  Mona’s  sitting-room,  her  work-room,  her  parlor,  her 
nursery.  Out  of  it  there  opened  another  room  by  a  door 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  wall  on  the  left.  The  door  of  that 
other  room  was  ajar,  and  Ewan  could  hear,  from  where  he 
now  stood  quivering  in  every  limb,  the  soft  cooing  of  the 
child — his  child,  hisdead  wife’s  child — and  the  inarticulate 
nothings  that  Mona,  the  foster-mother,  babbled  over  it. 

“  Boo-loo-la-la-pa-pa,”  “  Dearee-dearee-dear,”  and  then 
the  tender  cooing  died  off  into  a  murmur,  and  an  almost 
noiseless,  long  kiss  on  the  full  round  baby-neck. 

Ewan  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment,  and  the  sweat 
started  from  his  forehead.  He  felt  like  one  who  has  been 
kneeling  at  a  shrine  when  a  foul  hand  besmudges  it.  He 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


129 


had  half  swung  about  to  go  back,  when  his  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  the  Deemster’s  restless  foot  outside.  He  could 
not  go  back  :  the  poison  had  gone  to  his  heart. 

He  stepped  into  the  bedroom  that  led  out  of  the  sitting- 
room.  Mona  raised  her  eyes  as  her  brother  entered.  She 
was  leaning  over  the  cot,  her  beautiful  face  alive  with  the 
light  of  a  tender  love — a  very  vision  of  pure  and  delicious 
womanhood.  Almost  she  had  lifted  the  child  from  the 
cot  to  Ewan’s  arms  when  at  a  second  glance  she  recognized 
the  solemn  expression  of  his  face,  and  then  she  let  the  lit¬ 
tle  one  slide  back  to  its  pillow. 

“  What  has  happened  ?  ” 

“  Is  it  true,”  he  began  very  slowly,  “that  Dan  has  been 
here  ?  ” 

Then  Mona  blushed  deeply,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

“Is  it  true  ?”  he  said  again,  and  now  with  a  hurried 
and  startled  look  ;  “  is  it  true  that  Dan  has  been  here — 
here  ?” 

Mona  misunderstood  his  emphasis.  Ewan  was  standing 
in  her  chamber,  and  when  he  asked  if  Dan  had  been  there, 
he  was  inquiring  if  Dan  had  been  with  her  in  that  very 
room.  She  did  not  comprehend  the  evil  thought  that  had 
been  put  in  his  heart.  But  she  remembered  the  prohibi¬ 
tion  placed  upon  her  both  by  Ewan  and  her  father,  never 
to  receive  Dan  again,  and  her  confusion  at  the  moment  of 
Ewan’s  question  came  of  the  knowledge  that,  contrary  to 
that  prohibition,  she  had  received  him. 

“Is  it  true  ?”  he  asked  yet  again,  and  he  trembled  with 
the  passion  he  suppressed. 

After  a  pause  he  answered  himself,  with  an  awful  com¬ 
posure,  “  It  is  true.” 

The  child  lifted  itself  and  babbled  at  Mona  with  its  in¬ 
nocent  face  all  smiles,  and  Mona  turned  to  hide  her  con¬ 
fusion  by  leaning  over  the  cot. 

“  Boo — loo— la-la.” 

Then  a  great  wave  of  passion  seemed  to  come  to  Ewan, 
and  he  stepped  to  his  sister,  and  took  her  by  both  hands. 
He  was  like  a  strong  man  in  a  dream,  who  feels  sure  that 
he  can  only  be  dreaming — struggling  in  vain  to  awake 
from  a  terrible  nightmare,  and  knowing  that  a  nightmare 
it  must  be  that  sits  on  him  and  crushes  him. 

“No,  no,  there  must  be  a  mistake  ;  there  must,  there 
must,”  he  said,  and  his  hot  breathing  beat  on  her  face. 
*  He  has  never  been  here — here — never.” 

Mona  raised  herself.  She  loosed  her  hands  from  his 


THE  DEEMSTER , 


grasp.  Her  woman’s  pride  had  been  stung.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  brother  was  taking  more  than  a  brother's 
part. 

“  There  is  no  mistake,”  she  said,  with  some  anger  ;  “  Dan 
has  been  here.” 

“  You  confess  it  ?  ” 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  and  answered,  “  Yes, 
if  you  call  it  so — I  confess  it.  It  is  of  no  use  to  deceive 
you.” 

Then  there  was  an  ominous  silence.  Ewan's  features 
became  death-like  in  their  rigidity.  A  sickening  sense  came 
over  him.  He  was  struggling  to  ask  a  question  that  his 
tongue  would  not  utter. 

“Mona — do  you  mean — do  you  mean  that  Dan  has — 

has — outrage - Great  God !  what  am  I  to  say?  How  am 

I  to  say  it  ?” 

Mona  drew  herself  up. 

u  I  mean  that  I  can  hide  my  feelings  no  longer,”  she  said. 
u  Do  with  me  as  you  may  ;  I  am  not  a  child,  and  no  brother 
shall  govern  me.  Dan  has  been  here — outrage  or  none — 

call  it  what  you  will — yes,  and - ”  she  dropped  her  head 

over  the  cot,  “  I  love  him.” 

Ewan  was  not  himself :  his  heart  was  poisoned,  or  then 
and  there  he  would  have  unravelled  the  devilish  tangle  of 
circumstance.  He  tried  again  with  another  and  yet  an¬ 
other  question.  But  every  question  he  asked,  and  every 
Unswer  Mona  gave,  made  the  tangle  thicker.  His  strained 
jaw  seemed  to  start  from  his  skin. 

“  I  passed  him  on  the  road,”  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  hushed 
whisper.  “  Oh,  that  I  had  but  known  !” 

Then  with  a  look  of  reproach  at  Mona  he  turned  aside 
and  went  out  of  the  room. 

He  stepped  back  to  the  study,  and  there  the  Deemster 
Was  still  tramping  to  and  fro. 

4t  Simpleton,  simpleton,  to  expect  a  woman  to  acknowl¬ 
edge  her  own  dishonor,”  the  Deemster  cried. 

Ewan  did  not  answer  at  once  ;  but  in  silence  he  reached 
up  to  where  the  pistol  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  and  took 
it  down. 

“  What  are  you  doing  ?  ”  cried  the  Deemster. 

“She/foj  acknowledged  it,”  said  Ewan,  still  in  a  sup¬ 
pressed  whisper. 

For  a  moment  the  Deemster  was  made  speechless  and 
powerless  by  that  answer.  Then  he  laid  hold  of  his  son’s 
hand  and  wrenched  the  pistol  away. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*3* 


“No  violence,”  he  cried. 

He  was  now  terrified  at  the  wrath  that  his  own  evil  pas¬ 
sions  had  aroused ;  he  locked  the  pistol  in  a  cabinet. 

“  It  is  better  so,”  said  Ewan,  and  in  another  moment  he 
?was  going  out  at  the  porch. 

The  Deemster  followed  him,  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

“Remember — no  violence,”  he  said;  “  for  the  love  of 
God,  see  there  is  no  violence.” 

But  Ewan,  without  a  word  more,  without  relaxing  a 
muscle  of  his  hard,  white  face,  without  a  glance  or  a  sign, 
but  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  quivering  nostrils,  with  teeth 
compressed, and  the  great  veins  on  his  forehead  large  and 
dark  over  the  scar  that  Dan  had  left  there,  drew  himself 
away,  and  went  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HOW  EWAN  FOUND  DAN. 

Ewan  went  along  like  a  man  whose  reason  is  clogged. 
All  his  faculties  were  deadened.  He  could  not  see  proper^ 
ly.  He  could  not  hear.  He  could  not  think.  Try  as  he 
might  to  keep  his  faculties  from  wandering,  his  mind  would 
not  be  kept  steady. 

Time  after  time  he  went  back  to  the  passage  of  Script¬ 
ure  which  he  had  fixed  on  that  morning  for  his  next  lesson 
and  sermon.  It  was  the  story  how  Esau,  when  robbed  of 
his  birthright  blessing,  said  in  his  heart,  “I  will  slay  my 
brother  Jacob  how  Jacob  fled  from  his  brother’s  anger 
to  the  home  of  Laban  ;  how  after  many  years  Esau  mar¬ 
ried  the  daughter  of  Ishmael,  and  Jacob  came  to  the  coun¬ 
try  of  Edom  ;  how,  in  exceeding  fear  of  Esau’s  wrath,  Jacob 
sent  before  him  a  present  for  Esau  out  of  the  plenty  with 
which  God  had  blessed  him ;  and  how  Jacob  lifted  up  his 
eyes  and  beheld  Esau,  and  ran  to  meet  him  and  embraced 
him,  and  fell  on  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  they  wept. 

Ewan  would  see  the  goats  and  the  ewes,  and  the  rams, 
and  the  milch  camels  toiling  along  through  the  hot  lush 
grass  by  the  waters  of  the  Jordan  ;  then  all  at  once  these 
would  vanish,  and  he  would  find  himself  standing  alone  in 
the  drear  winter  day,  with  the  rumble  of  the  bleak  sea  far 
in  front,  and  close  overhead  the  dark  snow-clouds  sweep¬ 
ing  on  and  on. 

His  strong  emotion  paralyzed  all  his  faculties,  He  could 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*S* 

neither  fix  his  mind  on  the  mission  on  which  he  had  set 
out,  nor  banish  the  thought  of  it.  Mission  !  What  was  it  ? 
At  one  moment  he  thought  he  knew,  and  then  his  eyes 
seemed  to  jump  from  their  sockets.  “  Am  I  going  mad  ? ” 
he  asked  himself,  and  his  head  turned  giddy. 

He  went  on  ;  a  blind  force  impelled  him.  At  length  he 
reached  the  old  Ballamona,  His  own  especial  room  in  the 
house  was  the  little  book-encased  closet,  looking  over  the 
Curraghs  toward  the  sea — the  same  that  had  been  the 
study  of  Gilcrist  Mylrea,  before  he  went  away  and  came 
back  as  bishop. 

But  Ewan  turned  mechanically  toward  another  part  of 
the  house  and  entered  a  room  hung  about  with  muskets 
and  the  horns  of  deer,  fishing  rods  and  baskets,  a  watch¬ 
man’s  truncheon  lettered  in  red,  loose  pieces  of  net,  and 
even  some  horse  harness.  A  dog,  a  brown  collie,  lay  asleep 
before  the  fire,  and  over  the  rannel-tree  shelf  a  huge  watch 
was  ticking. 

But  Dan  was  not  in  his  room.  Then  Ewan  remembered 
in  a  dazed  way — how  had  the  memory  escaped  him  so  long  > 
— that  when  Dan  passed  him  on  the  road  he  was  not  going 
homeward,  but  toward  the  village.  No  doubt  the  man  was 
on  his  way  to  the  low  pot-house  he  frequented. 

Ewan  left  Ballamona  and  went  on  toward  the  “  Three 
Legs  of  Man.”  He  crossed  the  fields  which  the  Bishop 
had  cut  off  from  the  episcopal  demesne  for  his  son’s  occu¬ 
pation  as  a  farm.  As  he  walked,  his  wandering,  aimless 
thoughts  were  arrested  by  the  neglected  state  of  the  land 
and  the  stock  upon  it.  In  one  croft  the  withered  stalks 
of  the  last  crop  of  cabbage  lay  rotten  on  the  ground  ;  in  a 
meadow  a  sheep  was  lying  dead  of  the  rot,  and  six  or  seven 
of  the  rest  of  the  flock  were  dragging  their  falling  wool 
along  the  thin  grass. 

Ewan  came  out  of  the  fields  to  the  turnpike  by  the  foot-  ^ 
path  that  goes  by  Bishop’s  Court,  and  as  he  passed  through 
the  stile  he  heard  the  Bishop  in  conversation  with  some 
one  on  the  road  within. 

“  What  is  the  balance  that  I  owe  you,  Mr.  Looney,  for  " 
building  those  barns  on  my  son’s  farm  ?  ”  the  Bishop  was 
saying. 

“  Seven  pounds  five  shillings,  my  lord,”  the  man  an¬ 
swered,  “  and  rael  bad  I’m  wanting  the  money,  too,  my 
lord,  and  three  months  I’m  afther  waiting  for  it.” 

“  So  you  are,  Mr.  Looney.  You  would  have  been  paid 
before  this  if  I’d  had  wherewith  to  pay  you.” 


THE  DEEMSTER .  133 

Then  there  was  silence  between  the  two,  and  Ewan  was 
going  on,  when  the  Bishop  added  : 

“  Here — here — take  this  ;  ”  there  was  a  sound  as  of  the 
rattle  of  keys,  and  seals,  and  a  watch  chain — “it  was  my 
old  father's  last  gift  to  me,  all  he  had  to  give  to  me — God 
bless  his  memory  ! — and  I  little  thought  to  part  with  it — 
but  there,  take  it  and  sell  it,  and  pay  yourself,  Mr. 
Looney." 

The  man  seemed  to  draw  back. 

“  Your  watch  !  ”  he  said.  “  Aw,  no,  no,  no  !  Och,  if  I'm 
never  paid,  never,  it’s  not  Patrick  Looney  that  is  the  man 
to  take  the  watch  out  of  your  pocket." 

“Take  it — take  it !  Why,  my  good  man  " — the  Bishop’s 
voice  was  all  but  breaking — “  you  should  not  refuse  to 
take  the  time  of  day  from  your  Bishop."  Then  there  was 
a  jaunty  laugh,  with  a  great  sob  at  the  back  of  it.  “  Be¬ 
sides,  I’ve  found  the  old  thing  a  sore  tax  on  my  failing 
memory  this  many  day,  to  wind  it  and  wear  it.  Come,  it 
will  wipe  out  my  debt  to  you." 

Ewan  went  on  ;  his  teeth  were  set  hard.  Why  had  he 
overheard  that  conversation?  Was  it  to  whet  his  pur¬ 
pose  ?  It  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  some  supernatural 
influence  over  him.  But  this  was  not  the  only  conversa¬ 
tion  he  overheard  that  day.  When  he  got  to  the  “Three 
Legs  of  Man  "  a  carrier’s  cart  stood  outside.  Ewan  stepped 
into  the  lobby  of  the  house.  The  old  cat  was  counting  up 
the  chalk  marks,  vertical  and  horizontal,  at  the  back  of 
the  cupboard  door,  and  the  carrier  was  sitting  on  a  round 
table,  recounting  certain  mad  doings  at  Castletown. 

“‘  Let’s  down  with  the  watch  and  take  their  lanterns/ 
says  the  captain,  says  he,  laughing  morthal  and  a  bit 
sprung,  maybe  ;  and  down  they  went,  one  a  top  o’  the 
other,  Jemmy  the  Red,  and  Johnny-by-Nite,  and  all  the 
rest  of  them,  bellowing  strong,  and  the  capt’n  and  his  pals 
whipping  up  their  lanterns  and  their  truncheons,  and  away 
at  a  slant.  Aw,  it  was  right  fine." 

The  carrier  laughed  loud  at  his  story. 

“Was  that  when  Mastha  Dan  was  down  at  Castletowr 
fixing  the  business  for  the  Fencibles  ?  " 

“Aw,  yes,  woman,  and  middlin’  stiff  it  cost  him.  Next 
morning  Jemmy  the  Red  and  Johnny-by-Nite  were  off  for 
the  Castle,  but  the  captain  met  them,  and  4  I’m  not  for 
denying  it,’  says  he,  and  ‘  a  bit  of  a  spree/  he  says,  and 
‘Take  this,  Jemmy/  says  he,  ‘and  say  no  more.’  " 

41  And  what  did  he  give  the  watch  to  sweeten  them  i  " 


*34 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


u  Three  poun^,  they’re  saying.  Aw,  yes,  woman, 
woman-liberal,  very.  None  o’  yer  close-fisted  about  the 
captain.” 

The  blood  rushed  to  Ewan’s  heart.  In  a  moment  he 
found  himself  asking  for  Dan  and  hearing  from  the  old 
woman  with  the  whiskers,  who  spoke  with  a  curtsey  after 
every  syllable,  that  Master  Dan  had  been  seen  to  go  down 
toward  the  creek,  the  Lockjaw,  under  Orris  Head. 

Ewan  went  out  of  the  pot-house  and  turned  the  lane 
toward  the  creek.  What  was  the  mysterious  influence  on 
his  destiny,  that  he  of  all  men  must  needs  overhear  two 
such  conversations,  and  hear  them  now  of  all  times  ?  The 
neglected  lands,  the  impoverished  old  Bishop,  the  reckless 
spendthrift,  all  rose  before  Ewan’s  mind  in  a  bewildering 
haze. 

The  lane  to  the  Lockjaw  led  past  the  shambles,  that 
stood  a  little  out  of  the  village.  Ewan  had  often  noticed 
the  butcher’s  low  wagon  on  the  road,  with  sheep  penned 
in  by  a  rope  across  the  stern-board,  or  with  a  calf  in  a  net. 
All  at  once  he  now  realized  that  he  was  walking  behind 
this  wagon,  and  that  a  dead  ox  lay  in  it,  and  that  the  driver 
at  the  horse’s  head  was  talking  to  a  man  who  plodded  along 
beside  him.  Ewan’s  faculties  were  now  more  clouded  than 
before,  but  he  could  hear,  with  gaps  in  which  his  sense  of 
hearing  seemed  to  leave  him,  the  conversation  between 
the  two  men. 

“  Well,  well,  just  to  think — killing  tlie  poor  beast  for 
stopping  when  the  dinner  bell  rang  at  the  Coort !  And 
them  used  of  it  for  fifteen  years  !  Aw,  well,  well.” 

“  He’s  no  Christian,  anyway,  and  no  disrespec’.” 

“  Christian  ?  Christian,  is  it  ?  Brute  beast,  as  I’m 
sayin’.  The  ould  Bishop’s  son  ?  Well,  well.” 

Bit  by  bit,  scarcely  listening,  losing  the  words  some¬ 
times,  as  one  loses  at  intervals  the  tick  of  a  clock  when 
lying  awake  at  night  with  a  brain  distraught,  Ewan  gath¬ 
ered  up  the  story  of  the  bad  business  at  the  ploughing 
match  after  he  had  left  the  meadow. 

“  Christian  ?  Och,  Christian  ?  ”  one  of  the  men  re¬ 
peated  with  a  bitter  laugh  of  mockery.  “  I’m  thinking  it 
would  be  a  middlin’  little  crime  to  treat  a  Christian  like 
that  same  as  he  treated  the  poor  dumb  craythurs/’ 

Ewan’s  temples  beat  furiously,  and  a  fearful  tumult  was 
rife  in  his  brain.  One  wild  thought  expelled  all  other 
thoughts.  Why  had  he  overheard  three  such  conversa¬ 
tions  ?  There  could  be  but  one  answer — he  was  designed 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*3S 

by  supernatural  powers  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  fixed 
purpose.  It  was  irrevocably  decided — he  was  impelled  to 
the  terrible  business  that  was  in  his  mind  by  an  irresist- 
ible  force  to  which  he  was  blind  and  powerless.  It  was 
so,  it  was  so. 

Ewan  pushed  on  past  the  wagon,  and  heard  the  men’s 
voices  die  off  to  an  indistinct  mumble  behind  him.  How 
hideous  were  the  meditations  of  the  next  few  minutes ! 
The  beating  of  his  temple  drew  the  skin  hard  about  the 
scar  abov^  it.  He  thought  of  his  young  wife  in  her  grave, 
and  of  the  shock  that  sent  her  there.  He  felt  afresh  the 
abject  degradation  of  that  bitter  moment  in  the  library  at 
Bishop’s  Court,  when,  to  save  the  honor  of  a  forger,  he 
had  lied  before  God  and  man.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
gray  he?id  of  that  august  old  man,  serenest  of  saints,  fond¬ 
est  of  fathers,  the  Bishop,  bowed  down  to  the  dust  with 
shame  and  a  ruined  hope.  And  after  his  mind  had  oscil¬ 
lated  among  these  agonizing  thoughts,  there  came  to  him 
over  all  else,  and  more  hideous  than  all  else,  the  memory 
of  what  his  own  father,  the  Deemster,  had  told  him  an 
hour  ago. 

Ewan  began  to  run,  and  as  he  ran  all  his  blood  seemed 
to  rush  to  his  head,  and  a  thousand  confused  and  vague 
forms  danced  before  his  eyes.  All  at  once  he  recognized 
that  he  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  going  down  the 
steep  gate  to  the  sea  that  ended  in  the  Lockjaw.  Before 
he  was  aware  he  was  talking  with  Davy  Fayle,  and  asking 
for  Dan.  He  noticed  that  his  voice  would  scarcely  obey 
him.  J 

“  He's  in  the  crib  on  the  shore,  sir,”  said  Davy,  and  the 
lad  turned  back  to  his  work.  He  was  hammering  an  old 
bent  nail  out  of  a  pitch-pine  plank  that  had  washed  ashore 
with  the  last  tide.  After  a  moment  Davy  stopped  and 
looked  after  the  young  parson,  and  shook  his  head  and 
muttered  something  to  himself.  Then  he  threw  down  his 
hammer,  and  followed  slowly. 

Ewan  went  on.  His  impatience  was  now  feverish.  He 
was  picturing  Dan  as  he  would  find  him — drinking,  smok- 
jng,  laughing,  one  leg  thrown  over  the  end  of  a  table,  his 
:ap  awry,  his  face  red,  his  eyes  bleared,  and  his  lips  hot. 

It  was  growing  dark,  the  snow-cloud  was  very  low  over¬ 
head,  the  sea-birds  were  screaming  down  at  the  water’s 
?dge,  and  the  sea's  deep  rumble  came  up  from  the  shingle 
ielow  and  the  rocks  beyond. 

Ew@n  saw  the  tent  and  made  for  it.  As  came  near  to 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*3* 

it  he  slipped  and  fell.  Regaining  his  feet,  he  perceived 
that  in  the  dusk  he  had  tripped  over  some  chips  that  lay 
about  a  block.  Davy  had  been  chopping  firewood  of  the 
driftwood  that  the  sea  had  sent  up.  Ewan  saw  the  hatchet 
lying  among  the  loose  chips.  In  an  instant  he  had  caught 
it  up.  Rocognizing  in  every  event  of  that  awful  hour  the 
mysterious  influence  of  supernatural  powers,  he  read  this 
, incident  as  he  had  read  all  the  others.  Until  then  he  had 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  deed  he  was  to  do  ;  never  for 
one  instant  of  how  he  was  to  do  it.  But  now  the  hatchet 
was  thrust  into  his  hand.  Thus  was  everything  irrevo¬ 
cably  decided. 

And  now  Ewan  was  in  front  of  the  tent,  panting  audibly, 
the  hatchet  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets, 
the  great  veins  on  his  forehead  hard  and  black.  *Now,  O 
God !  for  a  moment’s  strength,  one  little  moment’s 
strength,  now,  now ! 

The  smoke  was  rising  from  the  gorse-covered  roof  ;  the 
little  black  door  was  shut.  Inside  was  Dan,  Dan,  Dan  ; 
and  while  Ewan’s  young  wife  lay  in  her  grave,  and  Ewan’s 
sister  was  worse  than  in  her  grave,  and  the  good  Bishop 
was  brought  low,  Dan  was  there,  there,  and  he  was  drink¬ 
ing  and  laughing,  and  his  heart  was  cold  and  dead. 

Ewan  lifted  the  latch  and  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
stepped  into  the  tent. 

Lord  of  grace  and  mercy,  what  was  there  ?  On  the  floor 
of  earth,  in  one  corner  of  the  small  place,  a  fire  of  gorse, 
turf,  and  logs  burned  slowly  ;  and  near  the  fire  Dan  lay 
outstretched  on  a  bed  of  straw,  his  head  pillowed  on  a  coil 
of  old  rope,  one  hand  twisted  under  his  head,  the  other 
resting  lightly  on  his  breast,  and  he  slept  peacefully  like  a 
child. 

Ewan  stood  for  a  moment  shuddering  and  dismayed. 
The  sight  of  Dan,  helpless  and  at  his  mercy,  unnerved  his 
arm  and  drove  the  fever  from  his  blood.  There  was  an 
awful  power  in  that  sleeping  man,  and  sleep  had  wrapped 
him  in  its  own  divinity. 

The  hatchet  dropped  from  Ewan’s  graspless  fingers,  and 
he  covered  his  face.  As  a  drowning  man  is  said  to  see  all 
his  life  pass  before  him  at  the  moment  of  death,  so  Ewan 
saw  all  the  past,  the  happy  past — the  past  of  love  and  of 
innocence,  whereof  Dan  was  a  part — rise  up  before  him. 

“  It  is  true,  I  am  going  mad,”  he  thought,  and  he  fell  baok 
on  to  a  bench  that  stood  by  the  wall.  Then  there  came  an 
instant  of  unconsciousness,  and  in  that  instant  he  was 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


again  by  the  waters  of  the  Jordan,  and  the  ewes  and  the 
rams  and  the  milch  camels  were  toiling  through  the  long 
grass,  and  Esau  was  falling  on  the  neck  of  Jacob,  and  they 
were  weeping  together. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BLIND  PASSION  AND  PAIN. 

Dan  moved  uneasily,  and  presently  awoke,  opened  his 
eyes,  and  saw  Ewan,  and  betrayed  no  surprise  at  his  pres¬ 
ence  there. 

“  Ah  !  Is  it  you,  Ewan  ?  ”  he  said,  speaking  quietly,  part¬ 
ly  in  a  shamefaced  way,  and  with  some  confusion.  “Do 
you  know,  I’ve  been  dreaming  of  you — you  and  Mona  ?” 

Ewan  gave  no  answer.  Because  sleep  is  a  holy  thing, 
and  the  brother  of  death,  whose  shadow  also  it  is,  there¬ 
fore  Ewan’s  hideous  purpose  had  left  him  while  Dan  lay 
asleep  at  his  feet  ;  but  now  that  Dan  was  awake,  the  evil 
passion  came  again. 

“  I  was  dreaming  of  that  Mother  Carey’s  chicken — you 
remember  it  ?  when  we  were  lumps  of  lads,  you  know — 
why,  you  can’t  have  forgotten  it — the  old  thing  I  caught 
in  its  nest  just  under  the  Head  ?  ” 

Still  Ewan  gave  no  sign,  buf  looked  down  at  Dan  resting 
on  his  elbows.  Dan’s  eyes  fell  upon  Ewan’s  face,  but  he 
went  on  in  a  confused  way. 

“  Mona  couldn’t  bear  to  see  it  caged,  and  would  have 
me  put  it  back.  Don’t  you  remember  I  clambered  up  to 
the  nest,  and  put  the  bird  in  again  ?  You  were  down  on 
the  shore,  thinking  sure  I  would  tumble  over  the  Head, 
and  Mona — Mona - ” 

Dan  glanced  afresh  into  Ewan’s  face,  and  its  look  of 
terror  seemed  to  stupefy  him  ;  still  he  made  shift  to  go  on 
with  his  dream  in  an  abashed  sort  of  way! 

“My  gough !  If  I  didn’t  dream  it  all  as  fresh  as  fresh, 
and  the  fight  in  the  air,  and  the  screams  when  I  put  the 
old  bird  in  the  nest — the  young  ones  had  forgotten  it  clean, 
and  they  tumbled  it  out,  and  set  on  it  terrible,  and  drove 
it  away — and  then  the  poor  old  thing  on  the  rocks  sitting 
by  itself  as  lonesome  as  lonesome — and  little  Mona  crying 
and  crying  down  below,  and  her  long  hair  rip-rip-rippling 
in  the  wind,  and — and-—” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*38 

Dan  had  got  to  his  feet,  and  then  seated  himself  on  a 
stool  as  he  rambled  on  with  the  story  of  his  dream.  But  t 
once  again  his  shifty  eyes  came  back  to  Ewan’s  face,  and 
he  stopped  short. 

“  My  God,  what  is  it  ?  ”  he  cried.  i 

Now  Ewan,  standing  there  with  a  thousand  vague  forms 
floating  in  his  brain,  had  heard  little  of  what  Dan  had  said,  1 
but  he  had  noted  his  confused  manner,  and  had  taken  this  11 
story  of  the  dream  as  a  feeble  device  to  hide  the  momen- 
tary  discomfiture. 

“  What  does  it  mean?”  he  said.  “It  means  that  this 
island  is  not  large  enough  to  hold  both  you  and  me.” 

"  What  ?  ” 

“  It  means  that  you  must  go  away.” 

u  Away !  ” 

“  Yes — and  at  once.” 

In  pause  that  followed  after  his  first  cry  of  amaze¬ 
ment,  Dan  thought  only  of  the  bad  business  of  the  killing 
of  the  oxen  at  the  ploughing  match  that  morning,  and  so, 
in  a  tone  of  utter  abasement,  with  his  face  to  the  ground, 
he  went  on,  in  a  blundering,  humble  way,  to  allow  that 
Ewan  had  reason  for  his  anger. 

tl  Fm  a  blind  headstrong  fool,  I  know  that — and  my  tem¬ 
per  is — well,  it’s  damnable,  that’s  the  fact — but  no  one 
suffers  from  it  more  than  I  do,  and  if  I  could  have  felled  i 
myself  after  I  had  felled  the  oxen,  why  down  ....  Ewan,  i 
for  the  sake  of  the  dear  old  times  when  we  were  good  ji 
chums,  you  and  I  and  little  Mona,  with  her  quiet  eyes,  j 
God  bless  her- - !” 

“  Go  away,  and  never  come  back  to  either  of  us,”  cried 
Ewan,  stamping  his  foot. 

Dan  paused,  and  there  was  a  painful  silence. 

“  Why  should  I  go  away  ?  ”  he  said,  with  an  effort  at 
quietness. 

“  Because  you  are  a  scoundrel — the  basest  scoundrel  on 
God’s  earth — the  foulest  traitor — the  blackest-hearted 
monster- - ” 

Dan’s  sunburnt  face  whitened  under  his  tawny  skin. 

“Easy,  easy,  man  veen,  easy,”  he  said,  struggling  visibly 
for  self-command,  while  he  interrupted  Ewan’s  torrent  of 
reproaches. 

“You  are  a  disgrace  and  a  by-word.  Only  the  riff-raff 
of  the  island  are  your  friends  and  associates.” 

“  That’s  true  enough,  Ewan,”  said  Dan,  and  his  head  fell 
between  his  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knee§, 


THE  DEEMSTER , 


*30 


«  What  are  you  doing  ?  Drinking,  gambling,  roystering, 
cheating — yes - ” 

Dan  got  on  his  feet  uneasily  and  took  a  step  to  and  fro 
ibout  the  little'  place  ;  then  sat  again,  and  buried  his  head 
n  his  hands  as  before. 

<<  I’ve  been  a  reckless,  self-willed,  mad  fool,  Ewan,  but 
10  worse  than  that.  And  if  you  could  see  me  as  God 
;ees  me,  and  know  how  I  suffer  for  my  follies  and  curse 
hem,  for  all  1  seem  to  make  so  light  of  them,  and 
aow  I  am  driven  to  them  one  on  the  head  of  another, 
perhaps — perhaps — perhaps  you  would  have  pity  ay, 
pity.” 

“Pity?  Pity  for  you?  You  who  have  brought  your 
father  to  shame  ?  He  is  the  ruin  of  the  man  he  was.  You 
have  impoverished  him  ;  you  have  spent  his  substance  and 
wasted  it.  Ay,  and  you  have  made  his  gray  head  a  mark 
for  reproach.  ‘Set  you4*  own  house  in  order  that 9 
what  the  world  says  to  the  man  of  God,  whose  son  is  a 

child  of  the - ” 

“  Stop  1  ”  cried  Dan. 

He  had  leapt  to  his  feet,  his  fist  clenched,  his  knuckle* 
showing  like  nuts  of  steel. 

But  Ewan  went  on,  standing  there  with  a  face  that  was 
ashy  white  above  his  black  coat.  “Your  heart  is  as  dead 
as  your  honor.  And  that  is  not  all,  but  you  must  outrage 
the  honor  of  another.” 

Now,  when  Ewan  said  this,  Dan  thought  of  his  forged 
signature,  and  of  the  censure  and  suspension  to  which 
Ewan  was  thereby  made  liable. 

“  Go  away,”  Ewan  cried  again,  motioning  Dan  off  with 
his  trembling  hand. 

Dan  lifted  his  eyes.  “  And  what  if  I  refuse  ?  he  said  in 
a  resolute  way. 

“Then  take  the  consequences.” 

“You  mean  the  consequences  of  that — that — that  for* 

gery  ?  ”  t 

At  this  Ewan  realized  the  thought  in  Dan  s  mind,  and 
perceived  that  Dan  conceived  him  capable  of  playing  upon 
his  fears  by  holding  over  his  head  the  penalty  of  an  of¬ 
fence  which  he  had  already  taken  upon  himself.  ‘‘God 
in  heaven  !  ”  he  thought,  “and  this  is  the  pitiful  creature 
whom  I  have  all  these  years  taken  to  my  heart 

**  Is  that  what  your  loyalty  comes  to?”  said  Dan,  and  his 
lip  curled.  _  .  , 

“  Loyalty !  ”  cried  Ewan,  in  white  wrath.  Loyalty,  and 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Tou  talk  to  me  of  loyalty — you  who  have  outraged  the 
honor  of  my  sister - ” 

“Mona!” 

“I  have  said  it  at  last,  though  the  word  blisters  my 
tongue.  Go  away  from  the  island  for  ever,  and  let  me 
never  see  your  face  again.” 

Dan  rose  to  his  feet  with  rigid  limbs.  He  looked  about 
him  for  a  moment  in  a  dazed  silence,  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  as  if  he  had  lost  himself. 

“Do  you  believe  that?"  he  said,  in  a  slow  whisper. 

“Don't  deny  it— don't  let  me  know  you  for  a  liar  as 
well,”  Ewan  said,  eagerly ;  and  then  added  in  another 
tone,  “  I  have  had  her  own  confession.” 

“  Her  confession  ?” 

“Yes,  and  the  witness  of  another.” 

“The  witness  of  another!” 

Dan  echoed  Ewan’s  words  in  a  vague,  half-conscious 
way. 

Then,  in  a  torrent  of  hot  words  that  seemed  to  blister 
and  sting  the  man  who  spoke  them  no  less  than  the  man 
who*heard  them,  Ewan  told  all,  and  Dan  listened  like  one 
in  a  stupor.  • 

There  was  silence,  and  then  Ewan  spoke  again  in  a  tone 
of  agony.  “  Dan,  there  was  a  time  when  in  spite  of  your¬ 
self  I  loved  you — yes,  though  I’m  ashamed  to  say  it,  for  it 
was  against  God’s  own  leading  ;  still  I  loved  you,  Dan. 
But  let  us  part  for  ever  now,  and  each  go  his  own  way, 
and  perhaps,  though  we  can  never  forget  the  wrong  that 
you  have  done  us,  we  may  yet  think  more  kindly  of  you, 
and  time  may  help  us  to  forgive - ” 

But  Dan  had  awakened  from  his  stupor,  and  he  flung 
aside. 

“  Damn  your  forgiveness  !  ”  he  said,  hotly,  and  then,  with 
teeth  set  and  lips  drawn  hard  and  eyes  aflame,  he  turned 
upon  Ewan  and  strode  up  to  him,  and  they  stood  together 
face  to  face. 

“  You  said  just  now  that  there  was  not  room  enough  in 
the  island  for  you  and  me,”  he  said,  in  a  hushed  whisper. 
“You  were  right,  but  I  shall  mend  your  words  :  if  you  be¬ 
lieve  what  you  have  said — by  Heaven,  I’ll  not  deny  it  for 
you !— -there  is  not  room  enough  for  both  of  us  in  the 
world.” 

u  It  was  my  own  thought,”  said  Ewan,  and  then  for  an 
instant  each  looked  into  the  other’s  eyes  and  read  the 
other’s  purpose. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Ht 

The  horror  of  that  moment  of  silence  was  broken  by  the 
lifting  of  the  latch.  Davy  Fayle  came  shambling  into  the 
tent  on  some  pretended  errand.  He  took  off  his  militia 
belt  with  the  dagger  in  the  sheath  attached  to  it,  and  hung 
it  on  a  long  rusty  nail  driven  into  an  upright  timber  at 
one  corner.  Then  he  picked  up  from  among  some  ling 
on  the  floor  a  waterproof  coat  and  put  it  on.  He  was 
going  out,  with  furtive  glances  at  Dan  and  Ewan,  who 
said  not  a  word  in  his  presence,  and  were  bearing  them¬ 
selves  toward  each  other  with  a  painful  constraint,  when 
his  glance  fell  on  the  hatchet  which  lay  a  few  feet  from 
the  door.  Davy  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  out,  mutter¬ 
ing  to  himself,  “  Strange,  strange,  uncommon  !  ” 

Hardly  had  the  boy  dropped  the  latch  of  the  door  from 
without  than  Ewan  took  the  militia  belt  from  the  nail  and 
buckled  it  about  his  waist.  Dan  understood  his  thought ; 
he  was  still  wearing  his  own  militia  belt  and  dagger. 
There  was  now  not  an  instant’s  paltering  between  them — 
not  a  word  of  explanation. 

“We  must  get  rid  of  the  lad,”  said  Dan. 

Ewan  bowed  his  head.  It  had  come  to  him  to  reflect 
that  when  all  was  over  Mona  might  hear  of  what  had  been 
done.  What  they  had  to  do  was  to  be  done  for  her 
honor,  or  for  what  seemed  to  be  her  honor  in  that  blind 
tangle  of  passion  and  circumstance.  But  none  the  less, 
though  she  loved  both  of  them  now,  would  she  loathe  that 
one  who  returned  to  her  with  the  blood  of  the  other  upon 
him. 

“  She  must  never  know,”  he  said.  “  Send  the  boy  away. 
Then  we  must  go  to  where  this  work  can  be  done  between 
you  and  me  alone.” 

Dan  had  followed  his  thought  in  silence,  and  was  step¬ 
ping  toward  the  door  to  call  to  Davy,  when  the  lad  came 
back,  carrying  a  log  of  driftwood  for  the  fire.  There  were 
some  small  flakes  of  snow  on  his  waterproof  coat. 

“  Go  up  to  the  shambles,  Davy,”  said  Dan,  speaking 
with  an  effort  at  composure,  “and  tell  Jemmy  Curghey  to 
keep  me  the  ox-horns.” 

Davy  looked  up  in  a  vacant  way,  and  his  lip  lagged  low. 
“Aw,  and  didn’t  you  tell  Jemmy  yourself,  and  terrible  par- 
tic’lar,  too  ?  ” 

“Do  you  say  so,  Davy?” 

“  Sarten  sure.” 

“Then  just  slip  away  and  fetch  them.” 

Davy  fixed  the  log  on  the  fire,  tapped  it  into  the  flames 


1: 

142  THE  DEEMSTER. 

glanced  anxiously  at  Dan  and  Ewan,  and  then  in  a  linger¬ 
ing  way  went  out.  His  simple  face  looked  sad  under  its 
vacant  expression. 

The  men  listened  while  the  lad’s  footsteps  could  be 
heard  on  the  shingle,  above  the  deep  murmur  of  the  sea. 
Then  Dan  stepped  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

“Now,”  he  said. 

It  was  rapidly  growing  dark.  The  wind  blew  strongly 
into  the  shed.  Dan  stepped  out,  and  Ewan  followed 
him. 

They  walked  in  silence  through  the  gully  that  led  from 
the  creek  to  the  cliff  head.  The  snow  that  had  begun  to 
fall  was  swirled  about  in  the  wind  that  came  from  over  the 
sea,  and,  spinning  in  the  air,  it  sometimes  beat  against  their 
faces. 

Ewan  went  along  like  a  man  condemned  to  death.  He 
had  begun  to  doubt,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  and  would 
have  shut  his  mind  to  the  idea  if  it  had  occurred  to  him. 
But  once,  when  Dan  seemed  to  stop  as  if  only  half  re¬ 
solved,  and  partly  turn  his  face  toward  him,  Ewan  mistook 
his  intention.  “  He  is  going  to  tell  me  that  there  is  some 
hideous  error,”  he  thought.  He  was  burning  for  that 
word.  But  no,  Dan  went  plodding  on  again,  and  never 
after  shifted  his  steadfast  gaze,  never  spoke,  and  gave  no 
sign.  At  length  he  stopped,  and  Ewan  stopped  with  him. 
They  were  standing  on  the  summit  of  Orris  Head. 

It  was  a  sad,  a  lonesome,  and  a  desolate  place,  in  sight 
of  a  wide  waste  of  common  land,  without  a  house,  and  with 
never  a  tree  rising  above  the  purple  gorse  and  tussocks  of 
long  grass.  The  sky  hung  very  low  over  it  ;  the  steep  red 
cliffs,  with  their  patches  of  green  in  ledges,  swept  down 
from  it  to  the  shingle  and  the  sharp  shelves  of  slate  cov¬ 
ered  with  sea-weed.  The  ground  swell  came  up  from  be¬ 
low  with  a  very  mournful  noise,  but  the  air  seemed  to  be 
empty,  and  every  beat  of  the  foot  on  the  soft  turf  sounded 
near  and  large.  Above  their  heads  the  sea-fowl  kept  up  a 
wild  clamor,  and  far  out,  where  sea  and  sky  seemed  to 
meet  in  the  gathering  darkness,  the  sea’s  steady  blow  on 
the  bare  rocks  of  the  naze  sent  up  a  deep,  hoarse  boom. 

Dan  unbuckled  his  belt,  and  threw  off  his  coat  and  vest. 
Ewan  did  the  same,  and  they  stood  there  face  to  face  in  the 
thin  flakes  of  snow,  Dan  in  his  red  shirt,  Ewan  in  his 
white  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  these  two  men  whose  souls 
had  been  knit  together  as  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit 
CO  the  soul  of  David,  and  each  ready  to  lift  his  hand  against 

■  ■.  *T1 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*43 

his  heart’s  best  brother.  Then  all  at  once  a  startled  cry 
came  from  near  at  hand. 

It  was  Davy  Fayle’s  voice.  The  lad  had  not  gone  to  the 
shambles.  Realizing  in  some  vague  way  that  the  errand 
was  a  subterfuge  and  that  mischief  was  about,  he  had  hid¬ 
den  himsejf  at  a  little  distance,  and  had  seen  when  Dan 
and  Ewan  came  out  of  the  tent  together.  Creeping  through 
the  ling,  and  partly  hidden  by  the  dusk,  he  had  followed 
the  men  until  they  had  stopped  on  the  Head.  Then  Davy 
had  dropped  to  his  knees.  His  ideas  were  obscure,  he 
scarcely  knew  what  was  going  on  before  his  eyes,  but  he 
held  his  breath  and  watched  and  listened.  At  length, 
when  the  men  threw  off  their  clothes,  the  truth  dawned  on 
Davy  ;  and  though  he  tried  to  smother  an  exclamation,  a 
cry  of  terror  burst  from  his  husky  throat. 

Dan  and  Ewan  exchanged  glances,  and  each  seemed  in 
one  moment  to  read  the  other’s  thoughts.  In  another  in¬ 
stant,  at  three  quick  strides,  Dan  had  taken  Davy  by  the 
shoulders. 

“  Promise,”  he  said,  “that  you  will  never  tell  what  you 
have  seen.” 

Davy  struggled  to  free  himself,  but  his  frantic  efforts 
were  useless.  In  Dan’s  grip  he  was  held  as  in  a  vice. 

“  Let  me  go,  Mastha  Dan,”  the  lad  cried. 

“  Promise  to  hold  your  tongue,”  said  Dan  ;  “  promise  it, 
promise  it.” 

“  Let  me  go,  will  you  ?  let  me  go,”  the  lad  shouted  *ul- 
lenly. 

“  Be  quiet,”  said  Dan. 

“  I  won’t  be  quiet,”  was  the  stubborn  answer.  “  Help? 
help  !  h  sip  !  ”  and  the  lad  screamed  lustily. 

“  Hold  your  tongue,  or  by  G - ” 

Dan  held  Davy  by  one  of  his  great  hands  hitched  into 
the  lad’s  guernsey,  and  he  lifted  the  other  hand  threaten¬ 
ingly. 

“  Help  !  help  !  help  !  ”  Davy  screamed  still  louder,  and, 
struggled  yet  more  fiercely,  until  his  strength  was  spent, 
and  his  breath  was  gone,  and  then  there  was  a  moment’s 
silence. 

The  desolate  place  was  still  as  desolate  as  before.  Not 
a  sign  of  life  around  ;  not  an  answering  cry. 

“  There’s  nobody  to  help  you,”  said  Dan.  “  You  have 
got  to  promise  never  to  tell  what  you  have  seen  to  man, 
Woman,  or  child.” 

“  I  won’t  promise,  and  I  won’t  hould  my  tongue/’  said 


144 


THE  'DEEMSTER. 


the  lad,  stoutly.  ik  You  are  goin'  to  fight,  you  and  Mastha 
Ewan,  and - ” 

Dan  stopped  him.  “  Hearken  here.  If  you  are  to  live 
another  hour,  you  will  promise - ” 

But  Davy  had  regained  both  strength  and  voice. 

“  I  don’t  care — help  !  help  !  help  !  ”  he  shouted. 

Dan  put  his  hand  over  the  lad’s  mouth,  and  dragged 
him  to  the  cliff  head.  Below  was  the  brant  steep,  dark 
and  jagged,  and  quivering  in  the  deepening  gloom,  and 
the  sea-birds  were  darting  through  the  mid-air  like  bats  in 
the  dark. 

“  Look/’  said  Dan,  “  you’ve  got  to  swear  never  to  tell 
what  you  have  seen  to-night,  so  help  you  God.” 

The  lad,  held  tightly  by  the  breast  and  throat,  and  grip¬ 
ping  the  arms  that  held  him  with  fingers  that  clung  like 
claws,  took  one  horrified  glance  down  into  the  darkness. 
He  struggled  no  longer.  His  face  was  very  pitiful  to  see. 

“I  cannot  promise,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  like  a  cry. 

At  that  answer  Dan  drew  Davy  back  from  the  cliff  edge, 
and  loosed  his  hold  of  him.  He  was  abashed  and 
ashamed.  He  felt  himself  a  little  man  by  the  side  of  this 
half-daft  fisher-lad. 

All  this  time  Ewan  had  stood  aside  looking  on  while 
Dan  demanded  the  promise,  and  saying  nothing.  Now  he 
went  up  to  Davy,  and  said,  in  a  quiet  voice  : 

“Davy,  if  you  should  ever  tell  anyone  what  you  have 
seen,  Dan  will  be  a  lost  man  all  his  life  hereafter.” 

“  Then  let  him  pitch  me  over  the  cliff,”  said  Davy,  in  a 
smothered  cry. 

“  Listen  to  me,  Davy,”  Ewan  went  on  ;  “  you’re  a  brave 
lad,  and  I  know  what’s  in  your  head,  but - ” 

“  Then  what  for  do  you  want  to  fight  him  ?  ”  Davy  broke 
out.  The  lad’s  throat  was  dry  and  husky,  and  his  eyes  were 
growing  dim. 

Ewan  paused.  Half  his  passion  was  spent.  Davy’s 
poor  dense  head  had  found  him  a  question  that  he  could 
not  answer. 

“  Davy,  if  you  don’t  proihise,  you  will  ruin  Dan — yes,  it 
will  be  you  who  will  ruin  him,  you,  remember  that.  He 
will  be  a  lost  man,  and  my  sister,  my  good  sister  Mona,  she 
will  be  a  broken-hearted  woman.” 

Then  Davy  broke  down  utterly,  and  big  tears  filled  his 
eyes,  and  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

“  I  promise,”  he  sobbed. 

4<  Good  lad—’iiow  go.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*4S 

Davy  turned  about  and  went  away,  at  first  running,  and 
fchen  dragging  slowly,  then  running  again,  and  then  again 
lingering. 

What  followed  was  a  very  pitiful  conflict  of  emotion. 
Nature,  who  looks  down  pitilessly  on  man  and  his  big, 
little  passions,  that  clamor  so  loud  but  never  touch  her  at 
all — even  Nature  played  her  part  in  this  tragedy. 

When  Davy  Fayle  was  gone,  Dan  and  Ewan  stood  face 
to  face  as  before,  Dan  with  his  back  to  the  cliff,  Ewan  with 
his  face  to  the  sea.  Then,  without  a  word,  each  turned 
aside  and  picked  up  his  militia  belt. 

The  snowflakes  had  thickened  during  the  last  few  mo¬ 
ments,  but  now  they  seemed  to  cease  and  the  sky  to  lighten. 
Suddenly  in  the  west  the  sky  was  cloven  as  though  by  the 
sweep  of  a  sword,  and  under  a  black  bar  of  cloud  and 
above  a  silvered  water-line  the  sun  came  through  very  red 
and  hazy  in  its  setting,  and  with  its  ragged  streamers 
around  it. 

Ewan  was  buckling  the  belt  about  his  waist  when  the 
setting  sun  rose  upon  them,  and  all  at  once  there  came  to 
him  the  Scripture  that  says,  “  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  on 
your  wrath.”  If  God’s  hand  had  appeared  in  the  heavens, 
the  effect  on  Ewan  could  not  have  been  greater.  Already 
his  passion  was  more  than  half  gone,  and  now  it  melted 
entirely  away. 

“  Dan,”  he  cried,  and  his  voice  was  a  sob,  “  Dan,  I  can¬ 
not  fight — right  or  wrong  I  cannot,”  and  he  flung  him¬ 
self  down,  and  the  tears  filled  his  eyes. 

Then  Dan,  whose  face  was  afire,  laughed  loud  and  bit¬ 
terly*  “  Coward,”  he  said,  coward  and  poltroon  !  ” 

At  that  word  all  the  evil  passion  came  back  to  Ewan 
and  he  leapt  to  his  feet. 

“That  is  enough,”  he  said  ;  “'the  belts — buckle  them 
together.” 

D£n  understood  Ewan’s  purpose.  At  the  next  breath 
the  belt  about  Dan’s  waist  was  buckled  to  the  belt  about 
the  waist  of  Ewan,  and  the  two  men  stood  strapped  to¬ 
gether.  Then  they  drew  the  daggers,  and  an  awful 
struggle  followed. 

With  breast  to  breast  until  their  flesh  all  but  touched, 
and  with  thighs  entwined,  they  reeled  and  swayed,  the 
right  hand  of  each  held  up  for  thrust,  the  left  for  guard 
and  parry.  What  Dan  gained  in  strength  Ewan  made  up 
in  rage,  and  the  fight  was  fierce  and  terrible.  Dan  still  with 
his  back  to  the  cliff,  Ewan  still  with  his  face  to  the  sea. 


THE  DEEMSTRX. 


At  one  instant  Dan,  by  his  great  stature,  had  reached 
over  Ewan’s  shoulder  to  thrust  from  behind,  and  at  the 
next  instant  Ewan  had  wrenched  his  lithe  body  back¬ 
ward  and  had  taken  the  blow  in  his  lifted  arm,  which 
forthwith  spouted  blood  above  the  wrist.  In  that  en¬ 
counter  they  reeled  about,  changing  places,  and  Ewan’s 
back  was  henceforward  toward  the  cliff,  and  Dan  fought 
with  his  face  toward  the  sea. 

It  was  a  hideous  and  savage  fight.  The  sun  had  gone 
down,  the  cleft  in  the  heavens  had  closed  again,  once 
more  the  thin  flakes  of  snow  were  falling,  and  the  world 
had  dropped  back  to  its  dark  mood.  A  stormy  petrel 
came  up  from  the  cliff  and  swirled  above  the  men  as  they 
fought,  and  made  its  direful  scream  over  them. 

Up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  embracing  closely,  clutching, 
guarding,  and  meantime  panting  hoarsely,  and  drawing 
hard  breath,  the  two  men  fought  in  their  deadly  hate. 
At  last  they  had  backed  and  swayed  to  within  three  yards 
of  the  cliff,  and  then  Ewan,  with  the  gasp  of  a  drowning 
man,  flung  his  weapon  into  the  air,  and  Dan  ripped  his 
dagger’s  edge  across  the  belts  that  bound  them  together, 
and  at  the  next  breath  the  belts  were  cut,  and  the  two 
were  divided,  and  Ewan,  separated  from  Dan,  and  leaning 
heavily  backward,  was  reeling,  by  force  of  his  own  weight, 
toward  the  cliff. 

Then  Dan  stbod  as  one  transfixed  with  uplifted  hand, 
and  a  deep  groan  came  from  his  throat.  Passion  and  pain 
were  gone  from  him  in  that  awful  moment,  and  the  w»rld 
itself  seemed  to  be  blotted  out.  When  he  came  to  himself, 
he  was  standing  on  the  cliff  head  alone. 

The  clock  in  the  old  church  was  striking.  How  the  bell 
echoed  on  that  lonely  height !  One — two — three — four — 
five.  Five  o’clock  !  Everything  else  was  silent  as  death. 
The  day  was  gone.  The  snow  began  to  fall  in  thick,  large 
flakes.  It  fell  heavily  on  Dan’s  hot  cheeks  and  bare  iteck. 
His  heart  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  the  very  silence  itself 
was  awful.  His  terror  stupefied  vhim.  “  What  have  I 
done  ?  ”  he  asked  himself.  He  could  not  think.  He  cov¬ 
ered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  strode  up  and  down  the 
cliff  head,  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  Then  in  a  bewil¬ 
dered  state  of  semi-consciousness  he  looked  out  to  sea, 
and  there  far  off,  a  league  away,  he  saw  a  black  thing 
looming  large  against  the  darkening  sky.  He  recognized 
that  it  was  a  sail,  and  then  perceived  that  it  was  a  lugger 
and  quite  mechanically  he  tried  to  divide  the  mainmasi 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


140 

$ 

and  mizzen,  the  mainsail  and  yawlsail,  and  to  note  if  the 
boat  were  fetching  to  leeward  or  beating  down  the  Chan¬ 
nel. 

All  at  once  sea  and  sky  were  blotted  out,  and  he  could 
not  stand  on  his  legs,  but  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  great 
beads  of  perspiration  rolled  down  his  face  and  neck.  He 
tried  to  call  “Ewan  !  Ewan!”  but  he  could  not  utter  the 
least  cry.  His  throat  was  parched  :  his  tongue  swelled 
and  filled  his  mouth.  His  lips  moved,  but  no  words  came 
from  him.  Then  he  rose  to  liis  feet,  and  the  world  flowed 
back  upon  him  ;  the  sea-fowl  crying  over  his  head,  the 
shrillness  of  the  wind  in  the  snow-capped  gorse,  and  the 
sea's  hoarse  voice  swelling  upward  through  the  air,  while 
its  heavy,  monotonous  blow  on  the  beach  shook  the  earth 
beneath  him.  If  anything  else  had  appeared  to  Dan  at 
that  moment,  he  must  have  screamed  with  terror. 

Quaking  in  every  limb,  he  picked  up  his  clothes  and 
turned  back  toward  the  shore.  He  was  so  feeble  that  he 
could  scarcely  walk  through  the  snow  that  now  lay  thick 
on  the  short  grass.  When  he  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
gully  he  did  not  turn  into  the  shed,  but  went  on  over  the 
pebbles  of  the  creek.  His  bloodshot  eyes,  which  almost 
started  from  their  sockets,  glanced  eagerly  from  side  to 
side.  At  last  he  saw  the  thing  be  sought,  and  now  that  it 
was  under  him,  within  reach  of  his  hand,  he  dare  hardly 
look  upon  it. 

At  the  foot  of  a  jagged  crag  that  hung  heavily  over  from 
the  cliff  the  body  of  Ewan  Mylrea  lay  dead  and  cold. 
There  was  no  mark  of  violence  upon  it  save  a  gash  on  the 
wrist  of  the  left  hand,  and  over  the  wound  there  was  a  clot 
of  blood.  The  white  face  lay  deep  in  the  breast,  as  if  the 
neck  had  been  dislocated.  There  were  no  other  outward 
marks  of  injury  from  the  fall.  The  body  was  outstretched 
on  its  back,  with  one  arm — the  left  arm — lying  half  over 
the  forehead,  and  the  other,  the  right  arm,  with  the  hand 
open  and  the  listless  fingers  apart,  thrown  loosely  aside. 

Dan  knelt  beside  the  body,  and  his  heart  was  benumbed 
like  ice.  He  tried  to  pray,  but  no  prayer  would  come,  and 
he  could  not  weep. 

“  Ewan !  Ewan !  ”  he  cried  at  length,  and  his  voice  of 
agony  rolled  round  the  corpse  like  the  soughing  of  the 
wind. 

“  Ewan  !  Ewan !  ”  he  cried  again  ;  but  only  the  sea’s 
voice  broke  the  silence  that  followed.  Then  his  head  fell 
on  the  cold  breast,  and  his  arms  covered  the  lifeless  body* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


and  he  cried  upon  God  to  have  mercy  on  him,  and  to  lift 
up  His  hand  against  him  and  cut  him  off. 

Presently  he  got  on  his  feet,  and  scarcely  knowing 
what  he  was  doing,  he  lifted  the  b  ^dy  in  his  arms,  with 
the  head  lying  backward  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  white 
face  looking  up  in  its  stony  stare  to  the  darkening  heavens. 
As  he  did  so  his  eyes  were  raised  to  the  cliff,  and  there, 
clearly  outlined  over  the  black  crags  and  against  the 
somewhat  lighter  sky,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man. 

He  toiled  along  toward  'the  shed.  He  wras  so  weak 
that  he  could  scarce  keep  on  his  legs,  and  when  he  reached 
the  little  place  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek  he  was  more 
dead  than  alive.  He  put  the  body  to  lie  on  the  bed  of 
straw  on  which  he  had  himself  slept  and  dreamed  an  hour 
before.  Then  all  at  once  he  felt  a  low  sort  of  cunning 
coming  over  him,  and  he  went  back  to  the  door  and  shut 
it,  and  drew  the  long  wooden  bolt  into  its  iron  hoop  on 
the  jamb. 

He  had  hardly  done  so  when  he  heard  an  impatient 
footstep  on  the  shingle  outside.  In  another  instant  the 
latch  was  lifted  and  the  door  pushed  heavily.  Then  there 
was  a  knock.  Dan  made  no  answer,  but  stood  very  still 
and  held  his  breath.  There  was  another  knock,  and  an¬ 
other.  Then,  in  a  low  tremulous  murmur  there  came  the 
words  : 

“  Where  is  he  ?  God  A’mighty  !  where  is  he  ?”  It  was 
Davy  Fayle.  Another  knock,  louder,  and  still  no  reply. 

“  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan,  they’re  coming  ;  Mastha 
Dan,  God  A’mighty  ! - ” 

Davy  was  now  tramping  restlessly  to  and  fro.  Dan  was 
trying  to  consider  what  it  was  best  to  do,  whether  to  open 
to  Davy  and  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  or  to  carry  it  off  as 
if  he  were  not  within,  when  another  foot  sounded  on  the 
shingle  and  cut  short  his  meditations. 

“Have  you  seen  Mr.  Ewan — Parson  Ewan  ?” 

Dan  recognized  the  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  Jarvis 
Kerruisli. 

Davy  did  not  answer  immediately. 

“  Have  you  seen  him,  eh  ?” 

“  No,  sir,”  Davy  faltered. 

“  Then  why  didn’t  you  say  so  at  once  ?  It  is  very 
strange.  The  people  said  he  was  walking  toward  the 
creek.  There’s  no  way  out  in  this  direction,  is  there  ?  ” 

“  Way  out — this  direction  ?  Yes,  sir,”  Davy  stammered, 
*  How  ?  show  me  the  way.” 


tlttf  DEEMSTER. 


4t 


*By  the  sea,  sir.” 

"The  sea !  Simpleton,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?” 

%i  Waiting  for  the  boat,  sir.” 

“  What  shed  is  this  ?  ” 

Dan  could  hear  that  at  this  question  Davy  was  in  a  fever 
of  excitement. 

“  Only  a  place  for  bits  of  net  and  cable,  and  all  to  that,” 
said  Davy,  eagerly. 

Dan  could  feel  that  Jarvis  had  stepped  up  to  the  shed, 
and  that  he  was  trying  to  look  in  through  the  little  window. 

‘‘Do  you  keep  a  fire  to  warm  your  nets  and  cables?” 
he  asked  in  a  suspicious  tone. 

At  the  next  moment  he  was  trying  to  force  the  door. 
Dan  stood  behind.  The  bolt  creaked  in  the  hasp.  If  the 
hasp  should  give  way,  he  and  Jarvis  would  stand  face  to 
face. 

“Strange — there’s  something  strange  about  all  this,” 
said  the  man  outside.  “  I  heard  a  scream  as  I  came  over 
the  Head.  Did  you  hear  anything  ?” 

“  I  tell  you  I  heard  nothing,”  said  Davy,  sullenly. 

Dan  grew  dizzy,  and  groping  for  something  to  cling  to, 
his  hand  scraped  across  the  door. 

“Wait!  I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  something  move 
inside.  Who  keeps  the  key  of  this  shed  ?  ” 

“  Kay  ?  There’s  never  a  kay  at  the  like  of  it.” 

“Then  how  is  it  Fastened?  From  within?  Wait — let 
me  see.” 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  brushing  of  a  hand  over  the 
outside  face  of  the  door. 

“Has  the  snow  stopped  up  the  keyhole,  or  is  there  no 
such  thing  ?  Or  is  the  door  fastened  by  a  padlock  ?  ” 

Dan  had  regained  his  self-possession  by  this  time.  He 
felt  an  impulse  to  throw  the  door  open.  He  groped  at  his 
waist  for  the  dagger,  but  belt  and  dagger  were  both  gone. 

“All  this  is  very  strange,”  said  Jarvis,  and  then  he 
seemed  to  turn  from  the  door  and  move  away. 

“  Stop.  Where  is  the  man  Dan — the  captain  ?  ”  he  asked, 
from  a  little  distance. 

‘  ‘  I  dunno,”  said  Davy,  stoutly. 

“  That’s  a  lie,  my  lad.” 

Then  the  man’s  footsteps  went  off  in  dull  beats  on  the 
enow-clotted  pebbles. 

After  a  moment’s  silence  there  was  a  soft  knocking; 
Davy  had  crept  up  to  the  door. 
u  Mastha  Dan,”  he  whispered,  amid  panting  breath* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


1% o 

Dan  did  not  stir.  The  latch  was  lifted  in  vain. 

“  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan.”  The  soft  knocking  con¬ 
tinued. 

Dan  found  his  voice  at  last. 

“  Go  away,  Davy — go  away,”  he  said,  hoarsely. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  there  came  from  with¬ 
out  an  answer  like  a  sob. 

“  I’m  going,  Mastha  Dan.” 

After  that  all  was  silent  as  death.  Half  an  hour  later, 
Dan  Mylrea  was  walking  through  the  darkness  toward 
Ballamona.  In  his  blind  misery  he  was  going  to  Mona. 
The  snow  was  not  falling  now,  and  in  the  lift  of  the  storm 
the  sky  was  lighter  than  it  had  been.  As  Dan  passed  the 
old  church,  he  could  just  descry  the  clock.  The  snow  lay 
thick  on  the  face,  and  clogged  the  hands.  The  clock  had 
stopped.  It  stood  at  five  exactly. 

The  blind  leading  that  is  here  of  passion  by  accident  is 
everywhere  that  great  tragedies  are  done.  It  is  not  the 
evil  in  man’s  heart  more  than  the  deep  perfidy  of  circum¬ 
stance  that  brings  him  to  crime. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT# 

However  bleak  the  night,  however  dark  the  mood  of 
ttm  world  might  be,  there  was  a  room  in  Ballamona  that 
was  bright  with  one  beautiful  human  flower  in  bloom. 
Mona  was  there — Mona  of  the  quiet  eyes  and  the  silent 
ways  and  the  little  elfish  head.  It  was  Christmas  Eve 
with  her  as  with  other  people,  and  she  was  dressing  the 
house  in  hibbin  and  hollin  from  a  great  mountain  of  both 
that  Hommy-beg  had  piled  up  in  the  hall.  She  was  look¬ 
ing  very  smart  and  happy  that  night  in  her  short  body  of 
homespun  turned  in  from  neck  to  waist,  showing  a  white 
habit-shirt  and  a  white  handkerchief  crossed  upon  it ;  a 
quilted  overskirt  and  linen  apron  that  did  not  fall  so  low 
as  to  hide  the  open-work  stockings  and  the  sandal-shoes. 
Her  room,  too,  was  bright  and  sweet,  with  its  glowing  fire 
of  peat  and  logs  on  the  wide ,  hearth,  its  lamp  on  the 
square  oak  table,  and  the  oak  settle  drawn  up  between 
them.  In  one  corner  of  the  settle,  bubbling  and  bab¬ 
bling  and  sputtering  and  cooing  amid  a  very  crater  of  red 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*5« 


baize  cushions,  was  Mona’s  foster-child,  Ewan’s  mother¬ 
less  daughter,  lying  on  her  back  and  fighting  the  air  with 
clinched  fists. 

While  Mona  picked  out  the  hibbin  from  the  hollin,  dis¬ 
sected  both,  made  arches  and  crosses  and  crowns  and 
rosettes,  and  then  sprinkled  flour  to  resemble  snow  on  the 
red  berries  and  the  green  leaves,  she  sung  an  old  Manx 
ballad  in  snatches,  or  prattled  to  the  little  one  in  that 
half-articulate  tongue  that  comes  with  the  instinct  of 
motherhood  to  every  good  woman  that  God  ever  makes. 

I  rede  ye  beware  of  the  Carrasdoo  men 
As  ye  come  up  the  wold  ; 

I  rede  ye  beware  of  the  haunted  glen — — 

But  a  fretful  whimper  would  interrupt  the  singer. 

“  Hush,  hush,  Ailee  darling — hush.” 

The  whimper  would  be  hushed,  and  again  there  would 
>e  a  snatch  of  the  ballad : 

In  Jorby  Curragh  they  dwell  alone 

By  dark  peat  bogs,  where  the  willows  moan, 

Down  in  a  gloomy  and  lonely  glen - 

Once  again  the  whimper  would  stop  the  song. 

“Hush,  darling;  papa  is  coming  to  Ailee,  yes  ;  and 
Ailee  will  see  papa,  yes,  and  papa  will  see  Ailee,  yes,  and 
Ailee - ” 

THen  a  long,  low  gurgle,  a  lovely  head  leaning  over  the 
back  of  the  settle  and  dropping  to  the  middle  of  the  pil¬ 
low  like  a  lark  to  its  nest  in  the  grass,  a  long  liquid  kiss 
on  the  soft  round  baby  legs,  and  then  a  perfect  fit  of  baby 
laughter. 

It  was  as  pretty  a  picture  as  the  world  had  in  it  on  that 
bleak  Christmas  Eve.  Whatever  tumult  might  reign  with¬ 
out,  there  within  was  a  nest  of  peace. 

Mona  was  expecting  Ewan  at  Ballamona  that  night, 
and  now  she  was  waiting  for  his  coming.  It  was  true  that 
when  he  was  there  three  hours  ago  it  was  in  something  like 
anger  that  they  had  parted,  but  Mona  recked  nothing  of 
that.  She  knew  Ewan’s  impetuous  temper  no  better  than 
his  conciliatory  spirit.  He  would  come  to-night,  as  he  had 
promised  yesterday,  and  if  there  had  been  anger  between 
them  it  would  then  be  gone. 

Twenty  times  she  glanced  at  the  little  clock  with  the  lioit 
face  and  the  pendulum  like  a  dog’s  head  that  swung  above 


*5- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


the  ingle.  Many  a  time,  with  head  aslant,  With  parted 
lips,  and  eyes  alight,  she  cried  “  Hark  !  ”  to  the  little  one 
when  a  footstep  would  sound  in  the  hall.  But  Ewan  did 
not  come,  and  meantime  the  child  grew  more  and  more 
fretful  as  her  bedtime  approached.  At  length  Mona  un¬ 
dressed  her  and  carried  her  off  to  her  crib  in  the  room  ad¬ 
joining,  and  sung  softly  to  her  while  she  struggled  hard 
with  sleep  under  the  oak  hood  with  the  ugly  beasts  carved 
on  it,  until  sleep  had  conquered  and  all  was  silence  and 
peace.  Then,  leaving  a  tallow  dip  burning  on  the  table 
between  the  crib  and  the  bed,  lest  perchance  the  little  one 
should  awake  and  cry  from  fear  of  the  darkness,  Mona 
went  back  to  her  sitting-room  to  finish  off  the  last  bunch 
of  the  hibbin  and  holttri. 

The  last  bunch  was  a  bit  of  prickly  green,  with  a  cluster 
of  the  reddest  berries,  and  Mona  hung  it  over  a  portrait  of 
her  brother,  which  was  painted  by  a  great  artist  from  Eng¬ 
land  when  Ewan  was  a  child.  The  Deemster  had  turned 
the  portrait  out  of  the  dining-room  after  the  painful  inter* 
view  at  Bishop’s  Court  about  the  loan  and  surety,  and 
Mona  had  found  it,  face  to  the  wall,  in  a  lumber-room. 
She  looked  at  it  now  with  a  new  interest.  When  she  hung 
the  hollin  over  it  she  recognized  for  the  first  time  a  resem 
blance  to  the  little  Aileen  whom  she  had  just  put  to  bed. 

H  ow  strange  it  seemed  that  Ewan  had  once  been  a  child  4 
like  Ailee  ! 

Then  she  began  to  feel  that  Ewan  was  late  in  coming, 
and  to  make  conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of  his  delay.  Her 
father’s  house  was  fast  becoming  a  cheerless  place  to  her. 
More  than  ever  the  Deemster  was  lost  to  her.  Jarvis  Ker- 
ruish,  her  stranger-brother,  was  her  father’s  companion  ; 
and  this  seemed  to  draw  her  closer  to  Ewan  for  solace  and 
cheer. 

Then  she  sat  on  the  settle  to  thread  some  loose  berries 
that  had  fallen,  and  to  think  of  Dan — the  high-spirited, 
reckless,  rollicking,  headstrong,  tender-hearted,  thought¬ 
less,  brave,  stubborn,  daring,  dear,  dear  Dan — Dan,  who  was 
very,  very  much  to  her  in  her  great  loneliness.  Let  other 
people  rail  at  Dan  if  they  would  ;  he  was  wrapped  up  with 
too  many  of  her  fondest  memories  to  allow  of  disloyalty 
like  that.  Dan  would  yet  justify  her  belief  in  him.  Oh,  » 
yes,  he  would  yet  be  a  great  man,  all  the  world  would  say 
it  was  so,  and  she  would  be  very  proud  that  he  was  her 

cpusin — yes,  her  cousin,  or  perhaps,  perhaps -  And 

then,  without  quite  daring  to  follow  up  that  delicious  trail! 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*53 


of  thought,  even  in  her  secret  heart,  though  none  might 
look  there  and  say  if  it  was  unmaidenly,  Mona  came  back 
to  the  old  Manx  ballad,  and  sung  to  herself  another  verse 
of  it : 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Adair,  the  youth  ? 

Who  does  not  know  that  his  soul  was  truth  ? 

Woe  is  me  I  how  smoothly  they  speak, 

And  Adair  was  brave,  and  a  man,  but  weak. 

All  at  once  her  hand  went  up  to  her  forehead,  and  the 
words  of  the  old  song  seemed  to  have  a  new  significance. 
Hardly  had  her  voice  stopped  and  her  last  soft  note  ceased 
to  ring  in  the  quiet  room,  when  she  thought  she  heard  her 
own  name  called  twice — “  Mona  !  Mona !  ” 

The  voice  was  Ewan's  voice,  and  it  seemed  to  come  from 
her  bedroom.  She  rose  from  the  settle,  and  went  into  her 
room.  There  was  no  one  there  save  the  child.  The  little 
one  was  disturbed  in  her  sleep  at  the  moment,  and  was 
twisting  restlessly,  making  a  faint  cry.  It  was  very  st^angt. 
The  voice  had  been  Ewan's  voice,  and  it  had  been  deep 
and  tremulous,  as  the  voice  of  one  in  trouble. 

Presently  the  child  settled  itself  to  sleep,  all  was  silent 
as  before,  and  Mona  went  back  to  the  sitting-room. 
Scarcely  was  she  seated  afresh  when  she  heard  the  voice 
again,  and  it  again  called  her  twice  by  name,  “  Mona  I 
Mona!"  in  the  same  tremulous  tone,  but  very  clear  and 
distinct.  _ 

Then  tremblingly  Mona  rose  once  more  and  went  into 
her  room,  for  thence  the  voice  seemed  to  come.  No  one 
was  there.  The  candle  burned  fitfully,  and  suddenly  the 
child  cried  in  its  sleep— that  strange  night-cry  that  freezes 
the  blood  of  one  who  is  awake  to  hear  it.  It  was  very, 
very  strange. 

Feeling  faint,  hardly  able  to  keep  on  her  feet,  Mona 
went  back  to  the  sitting-room  and  opened  the  door  that 
led  into  the  hall.  No  one  seemed  to  be  stirring.  The  door 
of  her  father’s  study  opposite  was  closed,  and-  there  was 
talking— the  animated  talking  of  two  persons — within. 

Mona  turned  back,  closed  her  door  quietly,  and  then, 
summoning  all  her  courage,  she  walked  to  the  window  and 
drew  the  heavy  curtains  aside.  The  hoops  from  which 
they  hung  rattled  noisily  over  the  pole.  Putting  her  face 
N  close  to  the  glass,  and  shading  her  eyes  from  the  light  of 
the  lamp  behind  her,  she  looked  out.  She  saw  that  the 
snow  had  fallen  since  the  lamp  had  been  lit  at  dusk,  There  ^ 


*S4 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


was  snow  on  the  ground,  and  thin  snow  on  the  leafless 
boughs  of  the  trees.  She  could  see  nothing  else.  She 
even  pushed  up  the  sash,  and  called  : 

“  Who  is  there  ?  ” 

But  there  came  no  answer.  The  wind  moaned  about  the 
house,  and  the  sea  rumbled  in  the  distance.  She  pulled 
the  sash  down  again. 

Then,  leaving  the  curtain  drawn  back,  she  turned  again 
into  the  room,  and  partly  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  mys¬ 
terious  apprehensions  that  had  seized  it,  she  sat  down  at 
the  little  harpsichord  that  stood  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
ingle  against  the  wall  that  ran  at  right  angles  from  the 
window. 

At  first  her  fingers  ran  nervously  over  the  keys,  but  they 
gained  force  as  she  went  on,  and  the  volume  of  sound 
seemed  to  dissipate  her  fears. 

“It  is  nothing, ”  she  thought.  “I  have  been  troubled 
about  what  Ewan  said  to-day,  and  I'm  nervous — that  is 
all.” 

And  as  she  played  her  eyes  looked  not  at  the  finger¬ 
board,  but  across  her  shoulder  toward  the  bare  window. 
Then  suddenly  there  came  to  her  a  sensation  that  made  her 
flesh  to  creep.  It  was  as  if  from  the  darkness  outside  there 
were  eyes  which  she  could  not  see  looking  steadily  in  upon 
her  where  she  sat. 

Her  blood  rushed  to  her  head,  she  felt  dizzy,  the  play¬ 
ing  ceased,  and  she  clung  by  one  hand  to  the  candle-rest 
of  the  harpsichord.  Then  once  more  she  distinctly  heard 
the  same  deep,  tremulous  voice  call  her  by  her  name — 
“Mona!  Mona  ! ” 

Faint  and  all  but  reeling,  she  rose  again,  and  again  made 
her  way  to  the  bedroom.  As  before,  the  child  was  rest¬ 
less  in  her  sleep.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  air  were  charged. 
Mona  had  almost  fallen  from  fright,  when  all  at  once  she 
heard  a  sound  that  she  could  not  mistake,  and  instantly 
she  recovered  some  self-possession. 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  window  of  her  sitting-room 
being  thrown  open  from  without.  She  ran  back,  and  saw 
Dan  Mylrea  climbing  into  the  room, 

“  Dan  !  ”  she  cried. 

“  Mona.” 

“  Did  you  call  ?  ” 

“When  ?” 

“  Now— a  little  while  ago?* 

“No.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


A  great  trembling  shook  Dan’s  whole  frame.  Mona 
perceived  it,  and  a  sensation  of  disaster  not  yet  attained  to 
the  clearness  of  an  idea  took  hold  of  her. 

“  Where  is  Ewan  ?  ”  she  said. 

He  tried  to  avoid  her  gaze.  “  Why  do  you  ask  for 
him  ?”  said  Dan,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

“  Where  is  he  ?  ”  she  asked  again. 

He  grew  dizzy,  and  laid  hold  of  the  settle  for  support. 
The  question  she  asked  was  that  which  he  had  come  to 
answer,  but  his  tongue  clave  to  his  mouth. 

Very  pale  and  almost  rigid  from  the  heaviness  of  a 
great  fear  which  she  felt  but  could  not  understand,  she 
watched  him  when  he  reeled  like  a  drunken  man. 

“He  has  called  me  three  times.  Where  is  he?  He 
was  to  be  here  to-night,”  she  said. 

“  Ewan  will  not  come  to-night,”  he  answered,  scarcely 
audibly;  “not  to-night,  Mona,  or  to-morrow — or  ever — 
no,  he  will  never  come  again.” 

The  horrible  apprehension  that  had  taken  hold  of  her 
leaped  to  the  significance  of  his  words,  and,  almost  before 
he  had  spoken,  a  cry  burst  from  her. 

“  Ewan  is  dead — he  is  dead  ;  Mona,  pur  Ewan,  he  is 
dead,”  he  faltered. 

She  dropped  to  the  settle,  and  cried,  in  the  excess  of 
her  first  despair,  “Ewan,  Ewan!  to  think  that  I  shall  see 
him  no  more  !  ”  and  then  she  wept.  All  the  time  Dan 
stood  over  her,  leaning  heavily  to  bear  himself  up,  trem¬ 
bling  visibly,  and  with  a  look  of  great  agony  fixed  upon 
her,  as  if  he  had  not  the  strength  to  turn  his  eyes  away. 

“  Yes,  yes,  our  Ewan  is  dead,”  he  repeated  in  a  murmur 
that  came  up  from  his  heart.  “The  truest  friend,  the 
fondest  brother,  the  whitest  soul,  the  dearest,  bravest, 
purest,  noblest — O  God  !  O  God  !  dead,  dead!  Worse,  a 
hundredfold  worse — Mona,  he  is  murdered.” 

At  that  she  raised  herself  up,  and  a  bewildered  look  was 
in  her  eyes. 

“Murdered?  No,  that  is  not  possible.  He  was  beloved 
by  all.  There  is  no  one  who  would  kill  him — there  is  no 
one  alive  with  a  heart  so  black.” 

“Yes,  Mona,  but  there  is,”  he  said  ;  “there  is  one  man 
with  a  heart  so  black.” 

“  Who  is  he  ?  ” 

“  Who !  He  is  the  foulest  creature  on  God’s  earth,  Ol\ 
God  in  heaven  !  why  was  he  born  ?  ” 

“Who  is  he  ?” 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


t56 

He  bowed  his  head  where  he  stood  before  wfer,  ana  ueads 
of  sweat  started  from  his  brow. 

“  Cursed  be  the  hour  when  that  man  was  born  !’*  he  said 
in  an  awful  whisper. 

Then  Mona’s  despair  came  upon  her  like  a  torrent,  and 
she  wept  long.  In  the  bitterness  of  her  heart  she  cried  : 

“ Cursed  indeed,  cursed  forever!  Dan,  Dan,  you  must 
kill  him — you  must  kill  that  man  !  ” 

But  at  the  sound  of  that  word  from  her  own  lips  the  spirit 
of  revenge  left  her  on  the  instant,  and  she  cried,  “No,  no, 
not  that.”  Then  she  went  down  on  her  knees  and  made  a 
short  and  piteous  prayer  for  forgiveness  for  her  thought. 
“O  Father,”  she  prayed,  “ forgive  me.  I  did  not  know 
what  I  said.  But  Ewan  is  dead  !  O  Father,  ourdear  Ewan 
is  murdered.  Some  black-hearted  man  has  killed  him. 
Vengeance  is  Thine.  Yes,  I  know  that.  O  Father,  for¬ 
give  me.  But  to  think  that  Ewan  is  gone  forever,  and  that 
base  soul  lives  on.  Vengeance  i&>  Thine  ;  but,  O  Father, 
let  Thy  vengeance  fall  upon  him.  If  it  is  Thy  will,  let  Thy  , 
hand  be  on  him.  Follow  him,  Father;  follow  him  with  i 
Thy  vengeance - ” 

She  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  settle,  her  up¬ 
turned  eyes  wide  open,  aad  her  two  trembling  hands  held 
above  her  head.  Dan  stood  beside  her,  and  as  she  prayed 
a  deep  groan  came  up  from  his  heart,  his  breast  swelled, 
and  his  throat  seemed  to  choke.  At  last  he  clutched  her 
by  the  shoulders  and  interrupted  her  prayer,  and  cried, 

“  Mona,  Mona,  what  are  you  saying — what  are  you  saying  ? 
Stop,  stop  !  ” 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  “  I  have  done  wrong/'  she  said,  j 
more  quietly.  “  He  is  in  God’s  hands.  Yes,  it  is  for  God 
to  punish  him.” 

Then  Dan  said,  in  a  heart-rending  voice  : 

“  Mona,  he  did  not  mean  to  kill  Ewan — they  fought — it 
was  all  in  the  heat  of  blood.' 

Once  more  he  tried  to  avoid  her  gaze,  and  once  more, 
pale  and  immovable,  she  watched  his  face. 

“  Who  is  he  ?”  she  asked,  with  an  awful  calmness. 

“  Mona,  turn  your  face  away  from  me,  and  I  will  tell 
you,”  he  said. 

Then  everything  swam  about  her,  and  her  pale  lips  grew 
ashy 

u  Don’t  you  know  ?  ”  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

She  did  not  turn  her  face,  and  he  was  compelled  to  loofc 
at  her  now.  His  glaring  eyes  were  fixed  upon  hen 


TffE  DEEMSTER.  i$f 

u  Don't  you  know  ?  ”  he  whispered  again,  and  then,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice,  he  said,  “  It  was  I,  Mona.” 

At  that  she  grew  cold  with  horror.  Her  features  became 
changed  beyond  recognition.  She  recoiled  from  him, 
stretched  her  trembling  hands  before  her  as  if  to  keep  him 
off. 

“  Oh,  horror  !  Do  not  touch  me  !  ”  she  cried,  faintly, 
thjuough  the  breath  that  came  so  hard. 

“Do  not  spare  me,  Mona,”  he  said  in  a  great  sob.  “Do 
not  spare  me.  You  do  right  not  to  spare  me.  I  have 
stained  my  hands  with  your  blood.” 

Then  she  sunk  to  the  settle,  and  held  her  head,  while  he 
stood  by  her  and  told  her  all — all  the  bitter,  blundering 
truth — and  bit  by  bit  she  grasped  the  tangled  tale,  and 
realized  the  blind  passion  and  pain  that  had  brought 
them  to  such  a  pass,  and  saw  her  own  unwitting  share  in 
it. 

And  he  on  his  part  saw  the  product  of  his  headstrong 
wrath,  and  the  pitiful  grounds  for  it,  so  small  and  so  ab¬ 
surd  as  such  grounds  oftenest  are.  And  together  these 
shipwrecked  voyagers  on  the  waters  of  life  sat  and  wept, 
and  wondered  what  evil  could  be  in  hell  itself  if  man  in 
his  blindness  could  find  the  world  so  full  of  it. 

And  Dan  cursed  himself  and  said  : 

“  Oh,  the  madness  of  thinking  that  if  either  were  gone 
the  other  could  ever  again  know  one  hour’s  happiness  with 
you,  Mona.  Ay,  though  the  crime  lay  hidden,  yet  would 
it  wither  and  blast  every  hour.  And  now,  behold,  at  the 
first  moment,  I  am  bringing  my  burden  of  sin,  too  heavy 
for  myself,  to  you.  I  am  a  coward — yes,  I  am  a  coward. 
You  will  turn  your  back  upon  me,  Mona,  and  then  I  shall 
be  alone.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  infinite  compassion,  and  her 
heart  surged  within  her  as  she  listened  to  his  voice  of 
great  agony. 

“  Ah  me  !  and  I  asked  God  to  curse  you.”  she  said.  “  Oh, 
how  wicked  that  prayer  was  !  Will  God  hear  it  ?  Merci¬ 
ful  Father,  do  not  hear  it.  I  did  not  know  what  I  said. 
I  am  a  blind,  ignorant  creature,  but  Thou  seest  and  know- 
est  best.  Pity  him,  and  forgive  him.  Oh,  no,  God  will 
not  hear  my  wicked  prayer.” 

Thus  in  fitful  outbursts  she  talked  and  prayed.  It  was 
as  if  a  tempest  had  torn  up  every  tie  of  her  soul.  Dan 
listened,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  swimming  eyes. 

“And  do  you  pray  for  me,  Mona  ?  ”  he  said* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


“  Who  will  pray  for  you  if  I  do  not  ?  In  all  the  world 
there  will  not  be  one  left  to  speak  kindly  of  you  if  I  speak 
ill.  Oh,  Dan,  it  will  become  known,  and  everyone  will  be 
against  you.” 

“And  can  you  think  well  of  him  who  killed  youF 
brother?” 

“  But  you  are  in  such  sorrow  ;  you  are  so  miserable.” 

Then  Dan’s  great  frame  shook  wofully,  and  he  cried  in 
his  pain — “  Mercy,  mercy,  have  mercy  !  What  have  I  lost  ? 
What  love  have  I  lost  ?  ” 

At  that  Mona’s  weeping  ceased  ;  she  looked  at  Dan 
through  her  lashes,  still  wet,  and  said  in  another  tone  : 

“Dan,  do  not  think  me  unmaidenly.  If  you  had  done 
well,  if  you  had  realized  my  hopes  of  you,  if  you  had  grown 
to  be  the  good  and  great  man  I  longed  to  see  you,  then, 
though  I  might  have  yearned  for  you,  I  would  rather  have 
died  with  my  secret  than  speak  of  it.  But  now,  now  that 
all  this  is  not  so,  now  that  it  is  a  lost  faith,  now  that  by 
God’s  will  you  are  to  be  abased  before  the  whole  world— 
oh,  do  not  think  me  unmaidenly,  now  I  tell  you,  Dan,  that 
I  love  you,  and  have  always  loved  you.” 

“  Mona !  ”  he  cried,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone,  and  took 
one  step  toward  her  and  held  out  his  hands.  There  was 
an  unspeakable  language  in  her  face. 

“  Yes ;  and  that  where  you  go  I  must  go  also,  though  it 
were  to  disgrace  and  shame - ” 

She  had  turned  toward  him  lovingly,  yearningly,  with 
heaving  breast.  With  a  great  cry  he  flung  his  arms  about 
her,  and  the  world  of  pain  and  sorrow  was  for  that  instant 
blotted  out. 

But  all  the  bitter  flood  came  rushing  back  upon  them. 
He  put  her  from  him  with  a  sferong  shudder. 

“  We  are  clasping  hands  over  a  tomb,  Mona.  Our  love 
is  known  too  late.  We  are  mariners  cast  on  a  rock  with¬ 
in  a  cable’s  length  of  harbor,  but  cut  oil  from  it  by  a  cruel 
sea  that  may  never  be  passed.  We  are  hopeless  within 
sight  of  hope.  Our  love  is  known  in  vain.  It  is  a  vision 
of  what  might  have  been  in  the  days  that  are  lost  for  ever. 
We  can  never  clasp  hands,  for,  O  God  !  a  cold  hand  is  be¬ 
tween  us,  and  lies  in  the  hand  of  both.”  ^ 

Then  again  she  fell  to  weeping,  but  suddenly  she  aroee 
as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea. 

*  You  will  be  taken,”  she  said  ;  “how  can  I  have  forgot¬ 
ten  it  so  long?  You  must  fly  from  the  island.  You  must 
get  away  to-night.  To-morrow  all  will  be  discovered*” 


THE  DEEMSTEtf. 


m 


“I  Will  not  leave  the  island,”  said  Dan,  firmly.  “Can 
you  drive  me  from  you  ?”  he  said,  with  a  suppliant  look. 
“Yes,  you  do  well  to  drive  me  away.” 

“My  love,  I  do  not  drive  you  from  me.  I  would  have 
you  here  for  ever.  But  you  will  be  taken.  Quick,  the 
world  is  wide.” 

“There  is  no  world  for  me  save  here,  Mona.  To  go 
from  you  now  is  to  go  for  ever,  and  I  would  rather  die  by 
my  own  h&nd  than  face  such  banishment.” 

“No,  no,  not  that;  never,  never  that.  That  would  im¬ 
peril  your  soul,  and  then  we  should  be  divided  for 
ever.” 

“  It  is  so  already,  Mona,”  said  Dan,  with  solemnity. 
“We  are  divided  for  ever — as  the  blessed  are  divided  from 
the  damned.” 

,  “Don’t  say  that,  don’t  say  that.” 

“Yes,  Mona,”  he  said,  with  a  fearful  calmness,  “we  have 
thought  of  my  crime  as  against  Ewan,  as  against  you,  my¬ 
self,  the  world,  and  its  law.  But  it  is  a  crime  against  God 
also,  and  surely  it  is  the  unpardonable  sin.” 

“  Don’t  say  that,  Dan.  There  is  one  great  anchor  of 
hope.” 

“What  is  that,  Mona  ?” 

“Ewan  is  with  God.  At  this  moment,  while  we  stand 
here  together,  Ewan  sees  God.” 

“Ah!” 

Dan  dropped  to  his  knees  with  awe  at  that  thought,  and 
drew  off  the  cap  which  he  had  worn  until  then,  and  bent 
his  head. 

“Yes,  he  died  in  anger  and  in  strife,”  said  Mona  ;  “  but 
God  is  merciful.  He  knows  the  feebleness  of  his  creat¬ 
ures,  and  has  pity.  Yes,  our  dear  Ewan  is  with  God  ;  now 
he  knows  what  you  suffer,  my  poor  Dan  ;  and  he  is  tak¬ 
ing  blame  to  himself  and  pleading  for  you.” 

“  No,  no  ;  I  did  it  all,  Mona.  He  would  not  have  fought. 
He  would  have  made  peace  at  the  last,  but  I  drove  him  on. 

4 1  cannot  fight,  Dan,’  he  said.  I  can  see  him  saying  it, 
and  the  sun  was  setting.  No,  it  was  not  fight,  it  was  mur¬ 
der.  And  God  will  punish  me,  my  poor  girl,  Death  is 
my  just  punishment — everlasting  death.1* 

“Wait.  I  know  what  is  to  be  done.’* 

“What,  Mona?” 

“You  must  make  atonement.” 

“  How  ?  ” 

41  You  must  give  yourself  up  to  justice  and  take  the 


ftfii 


The  deemster. 


punishment  of  the  law.  And  so  you  will  be  redeemed^ 
and  God  will  forgive  you.” 

He  listened,  and  then  said  : 

“  And  such  is  to  be  the  end  of  our  love,  Mona,  bom  in 
the  hour  of  its  death.  You,  even  you,  give  me  up  to  jus¬ 
tice.” 

“  Don’t  say  that.  You  will  be  redeemed  by  atonement. 
When  Ewan  was  killed  it  was  woe  enough,  but  that  you 
are  under  God’s  wrath  is  worse  than  if  we  were  all,  all 
slain.” 

“  Then  we  must  bid  farewell.  The  penalty  of  my  crime 
is  death.” 

“No,  no  ;  not  that.” 

“  I  must  die,  Mona.  This,  then,  is  to  be  our  last  part- 

ing. 

And  even  if  so,  it  is  best.  You  must  make  your  peace 
with  God.” 

“  And  you,  my  last  refuge,  even  you  send  me  to  my 
death.  Well,  it  is  right,  it  is  just,  it  is  well.  Farewell 
my  poor  girl  ;  this  is  a  sad  parting.” 

41  Farewell.” 

“  You  will  remember  me,  Mona  ?  w 

“  Remember  you  ?  When  the  tears  I  shed  for  Ewan 
are  dry,  I  shall  still  weep  for  you.” 

There  was  a  faint  cry  at  that  moment 

€t  Hush !  ”  said  Mona,  and  she  lifted  one  hand 

€‘  It  is  the  child,”  she  added.  “  Come,  look  at  it” 

She  turned,  and  walked  toward  the  bedroom.  Dan 
followed  her  with  drooping  head.  The  little  one  had 
again  been  restless  in  her  sleep,  but  now,  with  a  long 
breath,  she  settled  herself  in  sweet  repose. 

At  sight  of  the  child  the  great  trembling  shook  Dan’s 
frame  again.  “  Mona,  Mona,  why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  ” 
he  said. 

The  sense  of  his  crime  came  with  a  yet  keener  agony 
when  he  looked  down  at  the  child’s  unconscious  face. 
The  thought  flashed  upon  him  that  he  had  made  this  inno« 
cent  babe  fatherless,  and  that  all  the  unprotected  years 
were  before  her  wherein  she  must  realize  her  loss. 

He  fell  to  his  knees  beside  the  cot,  and  his  tears  rained 
down  upon  it. 

Mona  had  lifted  the  candle  from  the  table,  and  she  held 
it  above  the  kneeling  man  and  the  sleeping  child. 

It  was  the  blind  woman’s  vision  realized. 

When  Dan  rose  to  his  feet  he  was  a  stronger  man. 


THE  DEEMSTER* 


161 

‘•Mona,”  he  said,  resolutely,  ''you  are  right  This  sis 
must  be  wiped  out" 

She  had  put  down  the  candle  and  was  now  trying  to  take 
his  hand. 

“ Don’t  touch  me,"  he  said,  “don't  touch  me." 

He  returned  to  the  other  room,  and  threw  open  the  win¬ 
dow.  His  face  was  turned  toward  the  distant  sea,  whose 
low  moan  came  up  through  the  dark  night. 

“Dan,"  she  murmured,  “do  you  think  we  shall  meet 
again  ? " 

“  Perhaps  we  are  speaking  for  the  last  time,  Mona,"  he 
answered. 

“  Oh,  my  heart  will  break  ! "  she  said.  “  Dan,"  she  mur¬ 
mured  again,  and  tried  to  grasp  his  hand. 

“  Don’t  touch  me.  Not  until  later — not  until — until 
then.” 

Their  eyes  met.  The  longing,  yearning  look  in  hers  an¬ 
swered  to  the  wild  light  in  his.  She  felt  as  if  this  were 
the  last  she  was  ever  to  see  of  Dan  in  this  weary  world. 
He  loved  her  with  all  his  great,  broken,  bleeding  heart. 
He  had  sinned  for  her  sake.  She  caught  both  his  hands 
with  a  passionate  grasp.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  the 
brave,  fearless,  stainless  girl  put  her  quivering  lips  to 
his. 

To  Dan  that  touch  was  as  fire.  With  a  passionate  cry 
he  flung  his  arms  about  her.  For  an  instant  her  head  lay 
on  his  breast. 

“Now  go,"  she  whispered,  and  broke  from  his  embrace. 
Dan  tore  himself  away,  with  heart  and  brain  aflame.  Were 
they  ever  to  meet  again  ?  Yes.  At  one  great  moment 
they  were  yet  to  stand  face  to  face. 

The  night  was  dark,  but  Dan  felt  the  darkness  not  at 
all,  for  the  night  was  heavier  within  him.  He  went  down 
toward  the  creek.  To-morrow  he  would  give  himself  up 
to  the  Deemster;  but  to-night  was  for  himself — himself 
and  it. 

He  went  by  the  church.  A  noisy  company  were  just 
then  trooping  out  of  the  porch  into  the  churchyard.  There 
they  gathered  in  little  knots,  lit  lanterns,  laughed,  and 
drank  healths  from  bottles  that  were  brought  out  of  their 
pockets. 

It  was  the  breaking  up  of  the  Oiel  Verree. 

tt 


THE  DEEMSTER* 


ife 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

ALONE,  ALONE — ALL,  ALL  ALONE  ! 

When  Dan  got  down  to  the  creek  the  little  shed  was  full 
of  the  fisher-fellows.  There  were  Quilleash,  Teare,  Cren- 
nell,  and  the  lad  Davy.  The  men  wore  their  oilskins,  as  if 
they  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  d«ingy  on  the  beach,  and 
on  the  floor  were  three  baskets  of  cod  and  ray,  as  if  they 
had  just  set  them  down.^  The  fire  of  gorse  was  crackling 
on  the  hearth,  and  Davy  sat  beside  it,  looking  pale  and  ill. 
He  had  watched  Dan  away  from  the  shed,  and  then,  trem¬ 
bling  with  fear,  but  girding  up  his  young  heart  to  conquer 
it,  lie  had  crept  back  and  kept  guard  by  the  body. 

“  I  couldn’t  give  myself  liberty  to  lave  it,”  he  said,  half 
fearfully,  lifting  his  eyes  to  Dan’s  as  Dan  entered.  Then 
the  men,  who  in  the  first  moment  of  horror  had  asked  Davy 
fifty  questions,  and  got  never  an  answer  to  any  of  them, 
seemed  to  understand  everything  at  once.  They  made 
way  for  Dan,  and  he  strode  through  them,  and  looked  down 
at  the  body,  for  it  was  still  lying  where  he  had  left  it. 
He  said  not  a  word. 

When  the  men  had  time  to  comprehend  in  its  awful 
fulness  what  had  occurred,  they  stood  together  and  whis¬ 
pered,  cast  side  looks  at  Dan,  and  then  long,  searching  ; 
looks  at  the  body.  The  certainty  that  Ewan  was  dead  did 
not  at  first  take  hold  of  them.  There  was  no  mark  of 
violence  on  the  body  except  the  wound  above  the  wrist, 
and  suddenly,  while  the  men  stood  and  looked  down,  the 
wound  bled  afresh.  Then  old  Quilleash,  who  was  reput¬ 
ed  to  possess  a  charm  to  stop  blood,  knelt  beside  Ewan, 
and  wrhile  all  looked  on  and  none  spoke,  he  whispered  his 
spell  in  the  deaf  ear. 

“A  few  good  words  can  do  no  harm,”  said  Crennell, 
the  cook,  who  was  a  Quaker. 

Old  Quilleash  whispered  again  in  the  dead  ear,  and  then 
he  made  a  wild  command  to  the  blood  to  cease  flowing, 
in  the  name  of  the  three  godly  men  who  came  to  Rome— 
Christ,  Peter,  and  Paul. 

There  was  a  minute  of  silence,  and  the  blood  seemed  to 
stop.  The  men  trembled  ;  Davy,  the  lad,  grew  more  pale 
than  before,  and  Dan  stood  as  if  in  a  stupor,  looking  down 
and  seeing  all,  yet  seeing  nothing, 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Then  the  old  man  lifted  his  tawny  face.  “  Cka  mem* 
tisdaghy”  he  said,  in  another  hoarse  whisper.  “He  is  dead 
as  a  stone.” 

There  was  a  deep  groan  from  the  throats  of  the  men  ; 
they  dropped  aside,  and  awe  fell  upon  them.  None  of 
them  Spoke  to  Dan,  and  none  questioned  the  lad  again  ; 
but  all  seemed  to  understand  everything  in  some  vague 
way.  Billy  Quilleash  sat  on  a  block  of  a  tree-trunk  that 
stood  at  one  side,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  space.  Then 
the  old  man  turned  his  face  to  his  mates  and  said,  “I’m 
for  a  man  sticking  up  for  a  friend  I  am.” 

At  that  there  was  an  uneasy  movement  among  the 
others. 

“  Aw,  yes,  though,  a  man  should  stick  to  his  frien*,  he 
should,  alow  or  aloft,  up  or  down,”  continued  Billy ;  and 
after  some  twisting  and  muttering  among  the  other  fisher- 
fellows  he  went  on:  “You  have  to  summer  and  winter  a 
man  before  you  know  him,  and  lave  it  to  us  to  know  Mas- 
tha  Dan.  We’ve  shared  meat,  shared  work  with  him,  and 

d - •  me  sowl!  nothing  will  hould  me,  but  I’ll  stand  up 

for  him  now,  sink  or  swim.” 

Then  one  of  the  fellows  said,  “  Ay,”  and  another  said, 
“Ay,”  and  a  third — it  was  Crennell — said,  “A  friend  in 
need  was  more  preciouser  nor  goold  ;”  and  then  old  Billy 
half  twistod  his  head  toward  Dan,  but  never  once  lifted 
his  eyes  to  Dan’s  face,  and,  speaking  at  him  but  not  to 
him,  said  they  were  rough  chaps  maybe,  and  couldn’t  put 
out  no  talk  at  all,  never  being  used  of  it,  but  if  there  was 
somethin’  wrong,  as  was  plain  to  see,  and  keepin*  a  quiet 
tongue  in  your  head  was  the  way  it  was  goin’,  and  buckin’ 
up  for  them  as  was  afther  buckin9  up  for  his  chums,  why, 
a  frien’  was  a  frien’,  and  they  meant  to  stand  by  it. 

At  that,  these  rough  sea-dogs  with  the  big  hearts  in 
their  broad  breasts  took  hold  of  each  other’s  hard  hands  in 
a  circle  about  the  body  of  Ewan,  whose  white  face  looked 
up  at  them  in  its  stony  stare,  and  there  in  the  little  lonely 
shed  by  the  sea  they  made  their  mutual  pledge. 

All  that  time  Dan  had  stood  and  looked  on  in  silence, 
and  Davy,  sitting  by  the  spluttering  fire,  sobbed  audibly 
while  Uncle  Billy  spoke. 

“  We  must  put  it  away,”  said  old  Billy,  in  a  low  tone^ 
with  his  eyes  on  the  body, 

“Ay,”  said  Ned  Teare. 

“What’s  o’clock?” 

“  A  piece  past  twelve,** 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


it* 


*  HalMIood.  It  will  be  near  the  turn  o j  the  ebb  at 
three,”  said  Quilleash. 

Not  another  word  of  explanation  was  needed,  all  under¬ 
standing  that  they  must  take  the  body  of  Ewan  out  to  sea, 
and  bury  it  there  after  three  o'clock  next  morning,  so  that, 
if  it  stirred  after  it  was  sent  down  to  its  long  home,  it  must 
be  swept  away  over  the  Channel. 

“  Heise,”  said  one,  as  he  put  his  hand  down  to  lift  the 
body. 

“  Shoo !  ” 

Dan  himself  stepped  aside  to  let  them  pass  out.  He 
had  watched  their  movements  with  wide  eyes.  They  went 
by  him  without  a  word.  When  they  were  gone,  he  fol¬ 
lowed  them  mechanically,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did. 
Davy  went  after  him. 

The  fishermen  stepped  out  into  the  night.  In  silence 
they  carried  the  body  of  Ewan  to  the  dingy  that  lay  on  the 
beach.  All  got  into  the  boat  and  pushed  off.  It  was  very 
dark  now,  but  soon  they  came  athwart  the  hawse  of  the 
Ben-my-Chree,  which  was  lying  at  anchor  below  low- 
water.  They  pulled  up,  lifted  the  body  over  the  gunwale, 
and  followed  it  into  the  fishing-boat. 

4<  There's  a  good  taste  of  a  breeze,”  said  old  Quil¬ 
leash. 

In  five  minutes  more  they  were  standing  out  to  sea,  with 
their  dread  freight  of  horror  and  crime.  They  had  put  the 
body  to  lie  by  the  hatchways,  and  again  and  again  they 
turned  their  heads  toward  it  in  the  darkness.  It  was  as 
though  it  might  even  yet  stand  up  in  their  midst,  and  any 
man  at  any  moment  might  find  it  face  to  face  with  him, 
eye  to  eye. 

The  wind  was  fresh  outside.  It  was  on  their  larboard 
quarter  as  they  made  in  long  tacks  for  the  north.  When  j 
they  were  well  away  the  men  gathered  about  the  cockpit 
and  began  to  mourn  over  Ewan,  and  to  recount  their  mem-  I 
ories  concerning  him. 

“  Well,  the  young  pazon’s  cruise  is  up,  and  a  rael  good  ; 
man  anyway.” 

“  Aw,  yes,  there's  odds  of  pazons,  but  the  like  of  himll 
isn't  in.” 

“  Poor  Pazon  Ewan,”  said  Quilleash,  "  I  remember  him 
since  he  was  a  wee  skute  in  his  mother's  arms — and  a  fine 
lady  too.  And  him  that  quiet,  but  thinking  a  dale  maybe, 
with  his  head  a  piece  to  starboard  and  his  eyes  fixed  like* 
figure-head,  but  more  natheral,  and  tender  uncommon 


THE  DEEMSTER.  165 

And  game  too.  Aw,  dear,  you  should  'a  seen  him  buds 

up  to  young  Dan  at  whiles.” 

“Game  ?  A  hot  temper  at  him  for  all,  and  I  wouldn’t 
trust  but  it's  been  the  death  of  him.” 

4t  Well,  man,  lave  it  at  that ;  lave  it,  man.  Which  of  us 
doesn’t  lie  ever  in  a  bit  of  a  breeze  aither  to  port  or  star¬ 
board  ?  God  won’t  be  hard  on  him  for  the  temper.  No, 
no.  God’ll  never  be  hard  on  a  warm  heart  because  it  keeps 
company  with  a  hot  head.’’ 

“  Aw,  but  the  tender  he  was !  ”  said  Crennell,  the 
Quaker.  “  And  the  voice  like  an  urgan  when  it’s  like  a 
flute,  soft  and  low,  and  all  a-tremblin’ !  D’ye  mind  the 
day  ould  Betty  Kelly  lost  her  little  gel  by  the  faver,  the 
one  with  the  slander  little  stalk  of  a  body,  and  the  head 
like  a  flower,  and  the  eyes  like  a  pair  of  bumbees  playing 
in  it  ?  You  mind  her,  the  millisli  ?  Well,  young  Pazon 
Ewan  up  and  went  to  Ballig-beg  immadietly,  and  ould 
Betty  scraming  and  crying  morthal,  and  she'd  die!  so  she 
would,  and  what  for  should  you  live ?  but  och,  boy,  the  way 
the  pazon  put  out  the  talk  at  him,  and  the  bit  of  a  spell  at 
the  prayin’ — aw,  man  alive,  he  calked  the  seams  of  the 
ould  body  wonderful.” 

“  The  man  was  free,  as  free  as  free,”  said  old  Quilleash. 
“When  he  grew  up  it  was,  1  How  are  you,  Billy  Quil¬ 
leash  ?  ’  And  when  he  came  straight  from  the  college  at 
Bishop’s  Court,  and  all  the  laming  at  him,  and  the  fine 
English  tongue,  and  all  to  that,  it  was  ‘  And  how  are  you 
to-day,  Billy?*  4 I’m  middlin’  to-day,  Mastha  Ewan.’ 
Aw,  yes,  yes,  though,  a  tender  heart  at  him  anyway,  and 
no  pride  at  all,  at  all.” 

The  old  man’s  memories  were  not  thrilling  to  relate,  but 
they  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes,  and  he  wiped  them 
ftway  with  his  sleeve. 

“  Still  a  quick  temper  for  all,  and  when  his  blood  was 
up  it  was  batten  down  your  hatches,  njy  boys — a  storm’s 
coming,”  said  Ned  Teare. 

All  at  once  they  turned  their  faces  in  the  darkness  to 
where  Dan  sat  on  the  battened  hatches,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  a  sort  of  shame  took 
hold  of  them  at  all  this  praise  of  Ewan.  It  was  as  if  every 
word  must  enter  into  Dan’s  soul  like  iron.  Then,  hardly 
knowing  what  they  did,  they  began  to  beat  about  to  undo 
the  mischief.  They  talked  of  the  Deemster  in  his  relation 
to  his  son. 

“  Deed  on  Ewan— there  was  not  much  truck  atween 


1 66 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


them— *the  Deemster  and  him.  It  wasn’t  natheraL  Itfs 
like  as  if  a  sarpent  crawled  in  his  ould  sowl,  the  craythur, 
and  spat  out  at  the  young  pazon.” 

Then  they  talked  of  Jarvis  Kerruish. 

“  Och,  schemin'  and  plannin’  reg’lar,  and  stirrin'  and 
stirrin’  and  stirrin’  at  the  devil’s  own  gruel.” 

“  Aw,  the  Deemster’s  made  many  a  man  toe  the  mark, 
but  I’m  thinking  he’ll  have  to  stand  to  it  when  the  big  day 
comes.  I’ll  go  bail  the  ould  polecat’s  got  summat  to  an¬ 
swer  for  in  this  consarn.” 

Dan  said  nothing.  Alone,  and  giving  no  sign,  he  still 
sat  on  the  hatches  near  where  the  body  lay,  and,  a  little  to 
aft  of  him,  Davy  Fayle  was  stretched  out  on  the  deck. 
The  lad’s  head  rested  on  one  hand,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
with  a  dog’s  yearning  look  on  the  dark  outlines  of  Dan’s 
figure. 

They  were  doubling  the  Point  of  Ayr,  when  suddenly 
the  wind  fell  to  a  dead  calm.  The  darkness  seemed  to 
grow  almost  palpable. 

“More  snow  cornin’ — let  the  boat  driff,”  said  old  BiUy 
Quilleash,  and  the  men  turned  into  the  cabin,  only  Dan 
and  the  body,  with  Davy,  the  lad,  remaining  on  deck. 

Then,  through  the  silence  and  the  blank  darkness,  there 
was  the  sound  of  large  drops  of  rain  falling  on  the  deck. 
Presently  there  came  a  torrent  which  lasted  about  ten 
minutes.  When  the  rain  ceased  the  darkness  lifted  away, 
and  the  stars  came  out.  This  was  toward  two  o’clock, 
and  soon  afterward  the  moon  rose,  but  before  long  it  was 
concealed  again  by  a  dense  black  turret-cloud  that  reared 
itself  upward  from  the  horizon. 

When  Dan  stepped  aboard  a  dull,  dense  aching  at  his 
heart  was  all  the  consciousness  he  had.  The  world  was 
dead  to  him.  He  had  then  no  clear  purpose  of  concealing 
his  crime,  and  none  of  carrying  out  the  atonement  that 
Mona  had  urged  him  to  attempt.  He  was  stunned.  His 
spirit  seemed  to  be  dead.  It  was  as  though  it  could  awake 
to  life  again  only  in  ano.ther  world.  He  had  watched  old 
Billy  when  he  whispered  into  Ewan’s  deaf  ear  the  words 
of  the  mystic  charm.  Without  will  or  intention  he  had 
followed  the  men  when  they  came  to  the  boat.  Later  on 
a  fluttering  within  him  preceded  the  return  of  the  ag¬ 
onizing  sense.  Had  he  not  damned  his  own  soul  for¬ 
ever  ?  That  he  had  taken  a  warm  human  life  ;  that  Ewan, 
who  had  been  alive,  lay  dead  a  few  feet  away  from  him — ■ 
this  was  nothing  to  the  horrible  thought  that  he  himself 


THE  DEEMSTER, , 


167 


was  going,  hot  and  unprepared,  to  an  everlasting  helL 
"  Oh,  can  this  thing  have  happened  ?  "  his  bewildered 
mind  asked  itself  a  thousand  times  as  it  awoke  as  often 
from  the  half-dream  of  a  paralyzed  consciousness.  Yes, 
it  was  true  that  such  a  thing  had  occurred.  No,  it  was 
not  a  nightmare.  He  would  never  awake  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  sun  light  and  smile  to  know  that  it  was  not  true. 
No,  no,  true,  true,  true  it  was,  even  until  the  Day  of 
Judgment,  and  he  and  Ewan  stood  once  more  face  to 
face,  and  the  awful  voice  would  cry  aloud,  “  Go,  get  thee 
hence.” 

Then  Dan  thought  of  Mona,  and  his  heart  was  nigh  to 
breaking.  With  a  dumb  longing  his  eyes  turned  through 
the  darkness  toward  the  land,  aud  while  the  boat  was  sail¬ 
ing  before  the  wind  it  seemed  to  be  carrying  him  away 
from  Mona  forever.  The  water  that  lay  between  them 
was  as  the  river  that  for  all  eternity  would  divide  the 
blessed  and  the  damned. 

And  while  behind  him  the  men  talked,  and  their  voices 
fell  on  his  ear  like  a  dull  buzz,  the  last  ray  of  his  hope 
was  flying  away.  When  Mona  had  prompted  him  to  the 
idea  of  atonefrient,  it  had  come  to  him  like  a  gleam  of  sun¬ 
light  that,  though  he  might  never,  never  clasp  her  hands 
o:\  earth,  in  heaven  she  would  yet  be  his,  to  love  for  ever 
and  ever.  But  no,  no,  no ;  between  them  now  the  great 
gulf  was  fixed. 

Much  of  this  time  Dan  lay  on  the  deck  with  only  the 
dead  and  the  lad  Davy  for  company,  and  the  fishing-boat 
lay  motionless  with  only  the  lap  of  the  waters  about  her. 
The  stars  died  off,  the  darkness  came  again,  and  then,  deep 
in  the  night,  the  first  gray  streaks  stretching  along  the 
east  foretold  the  dawn.  Over  the  confines  of  another 
night  the  soft  daylight  was  about  to  break,  but  more  utter¬ 
ly  lonely,  more  void,  to  Dan,  was  the  great  waste  of  waters 
now  that  the  striding  light  was  chasing  the  curling  mists 
than  when  the  darkness  lay  dead  upon  it.  On  one  side  no 
object  was  visible  on  the  waters  until  sky  and  ocean  met 
in  that  great  half-circle  far  away.  On  the  other  side  was 
the  land  that  was  once  called  home. 

When  the  gray  light  came,  and  the  darkness  ebbed  away, 
Dan  still  sat  on  the  hatches,  haggard  and  pale.  Davy  lay 
on  the  deck  a  pace  or  two  aside.  A  gentle  breeze  was  ris¬ 
ing  in  the  southwest.  The  boat  had  drifted  many  miles, 
and  was  now  almost  due  west  off  Peeltown,  and  some  five 
miles  out  to  sea.  The  men  came  up  from  below.  The 


I  SB  THE  DEEMSTER. 

cold  whit#  face  by  the  hatchway  looked  up  at  them,  and 
at  heaven. 

44  Wc  must  put  it  away  now,”  said  Billy  Quilleash. 

44  Ay,  it's  past  the  turn  of  the  ebb,”  said  CrennelL 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  A  man  went  below  and 
brought  up  an  old  sail,  and  two  heavy  iron  weights,  used 
for  holding  down  the  nets,  were  also  fetched  from  the  hold 
There  was  no  singing  out,  no  talking.  Silently  they  took 
up  what  lay  there  cold  and  stiff,  and  wrapped  it  in  canvas, 
putting  one  of  the  weights  at  the  head  and  another  at  the 
feet.  Then  one  of  the  men — it  was  old  Billy  himself,  be¬ 
cause  he  had  been  a  rigger  in  his  young  days — sat  down 
with  a  sailmaker’s  needle  and  string,  and  began  to  stitch 
up  the  body  in  the  sail. 

44  Will  the  string  hold  ?  ”  asked  one. 

44  It  will  last  him  this  voyage  out — it's  a  short  one,”  said 
old  Billy. 

Awe  and  silence  sat  on  the  crew.  When  all  was  made 
ready,  the  men  brought  from  below  a  bank-board  used  for 
shooting  the  nets.  They  lifted  the  body  on  to  it,  and  then 
with  the  scudding-pole  they  raised  one  end  of  the  board  on 
to  the  gunwale.  It  was  a  solemn  and  awful  sight.  Over¬ 
head  the  heavy  clouds  of  night  wtre  still  rolling  before  the 
dawn. 

Dan  sat  on  the  hatches  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
his  haggard  face  toward  the  deck.  None  spoke  to  him. 
A  kind  of  awe  had  fallen  on  the  men  in  their  dealings 
with  him.  They  left  him  alone.  Davy  Fayle  had  got  up 
and  was  leaning  against  the  mitch-board.  All  hands  else 
gathered  round  the  bank-board  and  lifted  their  caps* 
Then  old  Quilleash  went  down  on  one  knee  and  laid  his 
right  hand  on  the  body,  while  two  men  raised  the  other 
end  of  the  board.  44  JDy  bishee  jeeah  shin — God  prosper 
you,”  murmured  the  old  fisherman. 

44  God  prosper  you,”  echoed  the  others,  and  the  body  of 
Ewan  slid  down  into  the  wide  waste  of  waters. 

And  then  there  occurred  one  of  those  awful  incidents 
which  mariners  say  have  been  known  only  thrice  in  all  the 
strange  history  of  the  sea.  Scarcely  had  the  water  cov¬ 
ered  up  the  body,  when  there  was  a  low  rumble  under 
the  wave-circles  in  which  it  had  disappeared.  It  was  the 
noise  of  the  iron  weights  slipping  from  their  places  at  the 
foot  and  at  the  head.  The  stitching  was  giving  way,  and 
the  weights  were  tearing  open  the  canvas  in  which  the 
body  was  wrapped,  In  another  minute  these  weights  had 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


rolled  out  of  the  canvas  and  sunk  into  the  sea.  Then  a 
terrible  thing  happened.  The  body,  free  of  the  weights 
that  were  to  sink  it,  rose  to  the  surface.  The  torn  canvas, 
not  yet  thoroughly  saturated,  opened  out,  and  spread  like 
a  sail  in  the  breeze  that  had  risen  again.  The  tide  was 
not  yet  strong,  for  the  ebb  had  only  just  begun,  and  the 
body,  floating  on  the  top  of  the  water  like  a  boat,  began 
to  drive  athwart  the  hawse  of  the  fishing-boat  straight  for 
the  land.  Nor  was  the  marvel  ended  yet.  Almost  in¬ 
stantly  a  great  luminous  line  arose  and  stretched  from  the 
boat's  quarter  toward  the  island,  white  as  a  moon’s  water¬ 
way,  but  with  no  moon  to  make  it.  Flashing  along  the 
sea’s  surface  for  several  seconds,  it  seemed  to  be  the  finger 
ef  God  marking  the  body’s  path  on  the  waters.  Old 
mariners,  who  can  interpret  aright  the  signs  of  sea  and 
sky,  will  understand  this  phenomenon  if  they  have  marked 
closely  what  has  been  said  of  the  varying  weather  of  this 
fearful  night. 

To  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my-Chree  all  that  had  hap¬ 
pened  bore  but  one  awful  explanation.  The  men  stood 
and  stared  into  each  other’s  faces  in  speechless  dismay. 
They  strained  their  eyes  to  watch  the  body  until — the 
strange  light  being  gone — it  became  a  speck  in  the  twi¬ 
light  of  the  dawn  and  could  be  seen  no  more.  It  was  as 
though  an  avenging  angel  had  torn  the  murdered  man 
from  their  grasp.  But  the  worst  thought  was  behind,  and 
it  was  this  :  the  body  of  Ewan  Mylrea  would  wash  ashore, 
the  murder  would  become  known,  and  they  themselves, 
who  had  thought  only  to  hide  the  crime  of  Dan  Mylrea, 
would  now,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  become  participators  in 
that  crime  or  accessories  to  it. 

Dan  saw  it  all,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  another  man. 
He  read  that  incident  by  another  light.  It  was  God’s  sign 
to  the  guilty  man,  saying  “  Blood  will  have  blood.”  The 
body  would  not  be  buried  ;  the  crime  would  not  be  hid¬ 
den.  The  penalty  must  be  paid.  Then  in  an  instant 
Dan  thrust  behind  him  all  his  vague  fears,  and  all  his 
paralyzing  terrors.  Atonement !  atonement !  atonement  \ 
God  himself  demanded  it.  Dan  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
cried  :  “  Come,  my  lads,  we  must  go  back — heave  hearty 
and  away.” 

It  was  the  first  time  Dan  had  spoken  that  night,  and  his 
voice  was  awful  in  the  men’s  ears. 


170 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea. 

The  wind  strengthened,  and  thrmen  hoisted  sail  and  be¬ 
gan  to  beat  into  the  island.  The  breeze  filled  the  canvas, 
and  for  half  an  hour  the  jib  lay  over  the  side,  while  the 
fishing-boat  scudded  along  like  a  startled  bird.  The  sun 
rose  over  the  land,  a  thin  gauze  obscuring  it.  The  red 
light  flashed  and  died  away,  and  fanned  the  air  as  if  the 
wind  itself  were  the  sunshine.  The  men’s  haggard  faces 
caught  at  moments  a  lurid  glow  from  it.  In  the  west  a 
mass  of  bluish  cloud  rested  a  little  while  on  the  horizon, 
and  then  passed  into  a  nimbus  of  gray  rain-cloud  that 
floated  above  it.  Such  was  the  dawn  and  sun-rise  of  a  fate¬ 
ful  day. 

Dan  stood  at  the  helm.  When  the  speck  that  had 
glided  along  the  waters  like  a  spectre  boat  could  be  no 
more  seen,  he  gazed  in  silence  toward  the  eastern  light  and 
the  green  shores  of  morning.  Then  he  had  a  sweet  half- 
hour’s  blessed  respite  from  terrible  thoughts.  He  saw 
calmly  what  he  had  done,  and  in  what  a  temper  of  blind 
passion  he  had  done  it.  “Surely  God  is  merciful,”  he 
thought,  and  his  mind  turned  to  Mona.  It  relieved  him 
to  think  of  her.  She  intertwined  herself  with  his  yearning 
hope  of  pardon  and  peace.  She  became  part  of  his 
scheme  of  penitence.  His  love  for  her  was  to  redeem  him 
in  the  Father’s  eye.  He  was  to  take  it  to  the  foot  of  God’s 
white  throne,  and  when  his  guilt  came  up  for  judgment, 
he  was  to  lay  it  meekly  there,  and  look  up  into  the  good 
Father’s  face. 

The  crew  had  now  recovered  from  their  first  consterna¬ 
tion,  and  were  no  longer  obeying  Dan’s  orders  mechani¬ 
cally.  They  had  come  aboard  with  no  clear  purpose  before 
them,  except  that  of  saving  their  friend  ;  but  nature  is  naN 
ure,  and  a  pitiful  thing  at  the  best,  and  now  every  man 
began  to  be  mainly  concerned  about  saving  himself.  One 
after*one  they  slunk  away  forward  and  sat  on  the  thwart, 
and  there  they  took  counsel  together.  The  wind  was  full 
on  their  starboard  beam,  the  mainsail  and  yawl  were 
bellied  out,  and  the  boat  was  driving  straight  for  home. 
But  through  ^he  men’s  half-bewildered  heads  there  ran 
like  a  ^oid  blast  01  wind  the  thought  that  home  could  be 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


tome  no  longer.  The  voices  of  girls,  the  prattle  of  chil- 
Iren,  the  welcome  of  wife,  the  glowing  hearth — these 
:ould  be  theirs  no  more.  Davy  Fayle  stayed  aft  with 
Dan,  but  the  men  fetched  him  forward  and  began  to  ques- 
ion  him. 

“’Tarprit  all  this  mysterious  trouble  to  us,”  they  said. 

I  Davy  held  down  his  head  and  made  no  answer. 

“  You  were  with  him — what’s  it  he’s  afther  doin’  ?  ” 

Still  no  answer  from  the  lad. 

“Out  with  it,  you  cursed  young  imp,”  said  old  Billy. 

*  Damn  his  fool’s  face,  why  doesn’t  he  spake  ?  ” 

“  It’s  the  mastha’s  saycret,  and  I  wunnit  tell  it/’  said 
Davy. 

“  You  wunnit,  you  idiot  waitstrel  ?” 

“No,  I  wunnit,”  said  Davy,  stoutly. 

“Look  here,  ye  beachcomber,  snappin*  yer  fingers  at 
^er  old  uncle  that’s  after  bringin’  you  up,  you  pauper — 
what  was  it  goin’  doin’  in  the  shed  yander?” 

“  It’s  his  saycret,”  repeated  Davy. 

Old  Billy  took  Davy  by  the  neck  as  if  he  had  been  a 
sack  with  an  open  mouth,  and  brought  down  his  other  hand 
with  a  heavy  slap  on  the  lad’s  shoulder. 

“  Gerr  out,  you  young  devil,”  he  said. 

Davy  took  the  blow  quietly,  but  he  stirred  not  an  inch, 
and  he  turned  on  his  uncle  with  great  wide  eyes. 

“  Gerr  out,  scollop  eyes  and  old  Billy  lifted  his  hand 
again. 

“  Aisy,  aisy,”  said  Crennell,  interposing;  and  then,  while 
Davy  went  back  aft,  the  men  compared  notes  again. 

“It’s  plain  to  see,”  said  Ned  Teare,  “  it’s  been  a  quar¬ 
rel  and  maybe  a  fight,  and  he’s  had  a  piece  more  than  the 
better,  as  is  only  natheral,  and  him  a  big  strapping  chap 
as  strong  as  a  black  ox  and  as  straight  as  the  backbone  of 
a  herring,  and  he’s  been  in  hidlins,  and  now  he’s  afther  tak- 
in'  a  second  thought,  and  goin’  back  and  chance  it.” 

This  reading  of  the  mystery  commended  itself  to  all. 

“It’s  asy  for  him  to  lay  high  like  that,”  said  Ned  again. 
“If  I  was  the  old  Bishop’s  son  I’d  hould  my  luff  too,  and 
no  hidlins  neither.  But  we’ve  got  ourselves  in  for  it,  so  we 
have,  and  we’re  the  common  sort,  so  we  are,  and  there’s 
never  no  sailin’  close  to  the  wind  for  the  like  of  us.  ” 

And  to  this  view  of  the  situation  there  were  many  gruff 
assents.  They  had  come  out  to  sea  innocently  enough  and 
by  a  kindly  impulse,  but  they  had  thereby  cast  in  their  lot 
with  the  guilty  man ;  and  the  guilty  man  had  favor  ia  high 


IJ*  THE  DEEMSTER. 

places,  but  they  had  none.  Then  their  tousled  heads  went 
together  again. 

“  What  for  shouldn’t  we  lay  high,  too  ?  ”  whispered  one, 
which,  with  other  whispers,  was  as  much  as  to  say,  why 
should  they  not  take  the  high  hand  and  mutiny,  and  put 
Dan  into  irons,  and  turn  the  boat’s  head  and  stand  out  to 
sea?  Then  it  would  be  anywhere,  anywhere,  away  from 
the  crime  of  one,  and  the  guilt  of  all. 

“  Hould  hard,”  said  old  Billy  Quilleash,  “  I’ll  spake  to 
himself.” 

Dan,  at  the  tiller,  had  seen  when  the  men  went  forward, 
and  he  had  also  seen  when  some  of  them  cast  sidelong 
looks  over  their  shoulders  in  his  direction.  He  knew — he 
thought  he  knew  —  the  thought  wherewith  their  brave 
hearts  were  busy.  They  were  thinking — so  thought  Dan 
— that  if  he  meant  to  throw  himself  away  they  must  pre¬ 
vent  him.  But  they  should  see  that  he  could  make  atone¬ 
ment.  Atonement  ?  Empty  solace,  pitiful  unction  for  a 
soul  in  its  abasement,  but  all  that  remained  to  him — all, 
all. 

Old  Quilleash  went  aft,  sidled  up  to  the  helm,  and  began 
to  speak  in  a  stammering  way,  splicing  a  bit  of  rope  while 
he  spoke,  and  never  lifting  his  eyes  to  Dan's  face. 

“What  for  shouldn't  we  gerr  away  to  Shetlands?”  he 
said. 

“Why  to  Shetlands?”  asked  Dan. 

“Aw,  it's  safe  and  well  we'll  be  when  weVe  there.  Aw, 
yes,  I've  been  there  afore  to-day.  They’re  all  poor  men 
there,  but  right  kind;  and  what's  it  sayin', 1  When  one  poor 
man  helps  another  poor  man,  God  laughs.’  ” 

Dan  thought  he  saw  into  the  heart  of  the  old  fellow. 
His  throat  grew  hard  and  his  eyes  dim,  and  he  twisted  his 
face  away,  keeping  one  hand  on  the  tiller.  They  should 
yet  be  justified  of  their  loyalty,  these  stout  sea-dogs — yes, 
God  helping  him. 

“  No,  no,  Billy,”  he  said,  “there’s to  be  no  running  away. 
We're  going  back  to  see  it  out.” 

At  that  old  Quilleash  threw  off  some  of  his  reserve. 

“Mastha  Dan,”  he  said,  “we  came  out  to  sea  just  to 
help  you  out  of  this  jeel,  and  because  we've  shared  worfc, 
shared  meat  with  you,  and  a  frien'  should  stand  to  a  frien' ; 
but  now  we're  in  for  it  too,  so  we  are,  and  what  you’ll  have 
to  stand  to  we’ll  have  to  stand  to,  and  it'll  be  unknownst 
to  the  law  as  we  are  innocent  as  kittens  ;  and  SO  it’s  every 
man  for  himself  and  God  for  us  all.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Then  Dan  understood  them— how  had  he  been  blind  so 
long  to  their  position  ? 

“  ¥ou  want  me  to  put  about ;  is  that  it  ?”  he  asked. 

Old  Quilleash  nodded  his  head,  still  keeping  his  eye* 
down. 

“  You  think  you’ll  be  taken  with  me  ?” 

Old  Quilleash  made  an  abashed  mutter  of  assent.  “  Aw> 
yes,  as  ’cessories  before  the  fac’s,”  he  added. 

At  that  Dan’s  great  purpose  began  to  waver. 

“  Don’t  fear,  Billy,”  he  said,  “  I'll  speak  up  for  you.” 

“And  what’ll  that  go  for  ?  Nothin’.  Haven’t  we  been 
tryin’  to  put  it  away  ?  ” 

“  That’s  true.” 

It  was  a  fearful  situation.  The  cold  sweat  rose  in  big 
beads  on  Dan’s  forehead.  What  had  he  done  ?  He  had 
allowed  these  brave  fellows  to  cast  in  their  lot  with  him. 
They  were  with  him  now  for  good  or  ill.  He  might  say 
they  were  innocent,  but  what  would  his  word  avail  ?  And 
he  had  no  proof.  They  had  tried  to  cover  up  his  crime  ; 
they  could  not  cover  it ;  God  had  willed  that  the  crime 
should  not  be  hidden.  And  now,  if  he  wished  to  lose  his 
life  to  save  his  soul,  what  right  had  he  to  take  the  lives  of 
these  men  also  ?  The  brave  fellows  had  wives  that  waited 
for  them,  and  children  that  claimed  their  knees.  Atone¬ 
ment  ?  Empty  heroics,  to  be  bought  at  the  price  of  the 
blood  of  five  loyal  fellows  whose  only  crime  was  that  they 
had  followed  him.  He  had  dressed  himself  in  a  proud  ar¬ 
mor  of  self-sacrifice,  but  a  righteous  God,  that  sees  into 
the  heart  of  man  and  hates  pride  and  brings  it  to  the  dust, 
had  stripped  him  naked. 

Dan’s  soul  was  in  a  turmoil.  What  should  he  do  ?  On 
the  one  hand  were  love,  honor,  Mona,  even  everlasting 
life  ;  and  on  the  other  weie  five  innocent  men.  The  agony 
of  that  moment  was  terrible.  Atonement  ?  God  must  have 
set  his  face  against  it. 

Dan’s  hand  rested  on  the  tiller,  but  there  was  no  strength 
in  his  arm,  because  there  was  now  no  resolve  in  his  heart. 
The  fishing-boat  was  about  three  miles  west  of  Jurby 
Point,  going  well  before  the  wind.  In  half  an  hour  more 
it  would  run  into  the  creek.  It  was  now  to  act  or  never. 
What  was  he  to  do  ?  What  ?  What  ? 

It  was,  then,  in  that  moment  of  awful  doubt,  when  the 
will  of  a  strong  man  might  have  shrivelled  up,  that  nature 
jherself  seemed  to  give  the  answer. 

A>U  at  once  the  wind  fell  again  to  a  dead  calm*  Then 


m 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Dan  knew,  or  seemed  to  know,  that  God  was  with  the  men, 
and  against  him.  There  was  to  be  no  atonement.  No, 
there  was  to  be  no  proud  self-sacrifice. 

Dan’s  listless  hand  dropped  from  the  tiller,  and  he  flung 
himself  down  in  his  old  seat  by  the  hatches.  The  men 
looked  into  each  other’s  faces  and  smiled  a  grisly  smile. 
The  sails  flapped  idly  ;  the  men  furled  them,  and  the  boat 
drifted  south. 

The  set  of  the  tide  was  still  to  ebb,  and  every  boat’s 
length  south  took  the  boat  a  fathom  farther  out  to  sea. 
This  was  what  the  men  wanted,  and  they  gathered  in  the 
cockpit,  and  gave  way  to  more  cheerful  spirits. 

Dan  lay  by  the  hatches,  helpless  and  hopeless,  and  more 
haggard  and  pale  than  before.  An  unearthly  light  now 
fired  his  eyes,  and  that  was  the  first  word  of  a  fearful  tale. 
A  witch’s  Sabbath,  a  devil’s  revelry,  had  begun  in  his  dis¬ 
tracted  brain.  It  was  as  though  he  were  already  a  being 
of  another  world.  In  a  state  of  wild  hallucination  he  saw 
his  own  spectre,  and  he  was  dead  He  lay  on  the  deck  ; 
he  was  cold  ;  his  face  was  white,  and  it  stared  straight  up 
at  the  sky.  The  crew  were  busy  about  him  ;  they  were 
bringing  up  the  canvas  and  the  weights.  He  knew  what 
they  were  going  to  do';  they  were  going  to  bury  him  in 
the  sea. 

Then  a  film  overspread  his  sight,  and  when  he  awoke  he 
knew  that  he  had  slept.  He  had  seen  his  father  and  Mona 
in  a  dream.  His  father  was  very  old,  the  white  he^ad  was 
bent,  and  the  calm,  saintly  gaze  was  fixed  upon  him. 
There  was  a  happy  thought  in  Mona’s  face.'  Everything 
around  her  spoke  of  peace.  The  dream  was  fresh  and 
sweet  and  peaceful  to  Dan  when  he  woke  where  he  lay  on 
the  deck.  It  was  like  the  sunshine  and  the  carolling  of 
birds  and  the  smell  of  new-cut  grass.  Was  there  no  dew 
in  Heaven  for  parched  lips,  no  balm  for  the  soul  of  a  man 
accursed  ? 

Hours  went  by.  The  day  wore  on.  A  passing  breath 
sometimes  stirred  the  waters,  and  again  all  was  dumb, 
dead,  pulseless  peace.  Hearing  only  the  faint  flap  of  the 
rippling  tide,  they  drifted,  drifted,  drifted. 

Curious'and  very  touching  were  the  changes  that  came 
over  the  feelings  of  the  men.  They  had  rejoiced  when 
they  were  first  becalmed,  but  now  another  sense  was  up¬ 
permost.  The  day  was  cold  to  starvation.  Death  was  be¬ 
fore  them— slow,  sure,  relentless  death.  There  could  be 
&o  jugglery.  Then  let  it  be  death  at  home  rather  thap 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*75 


death  on  this  desert  sea !  Anything,  anything  but  this 
blind  end,  this  dumb  end,  this  dying  bit  by  bit  on  still 
waters.  To  see  the  darkness  come  again,  and  the  sun  rise 
afresh,  and  once  more  the  sun  sink  and  the  darkness  deep¬ 
en,  and  still  to  lie  there  with  nothing  around  but  the 
changeless  sea,  and  nothing  above  but  the  empty  sky,  and 
only  the  eye  of  God  upon  them,  while  the  winds  and  the 
waters  lay  in  His  avenging  hands — let  it  rather  be  death, 
swift  death,  just  or  unjust 

Thus  despair  took  hold  of  them,  and  drove  away  all  fear, 
and  where  there  is  no  fear  there  is  no  grace. 

“  Share yn  oik  shione  doom  net  yn  oik  nagh  nhione  dooinf  ”  said 
old  Billy,  and  that  was  the  old  Manx  proverb  that  says  that 
better  is  the  evil  we  know  than  the  evil  we  do  not  know. 

And  with  such  shifts  they  deceived  themselves,  and 
changed  their  poor  purposes,  and  comforted  their  torn 
hearts. 

The  cold,  thick,  winter  day  was  worn  far  toward  sun* 
set,  and  still  not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring.  Gilded  by 
the  sun's  hazy  rays,  the  waters  to  the  west  made  a  floor  of 
bleared  red.  The  fishing-boat  had  drifted  nearly  ten  miles 
to  the  south.  If  she  should  drift  two  miles  more  she  must 
float  into  the  south-eastern  current  that  flows  under  Con¬ 
trary  Head.  At  the  thought  of  that,  and  the  bare  chance 
of  drifting  into  Peeltown  Harbor,  a  little  of  the  vague 
sense  of  hopelessness  seemed  to  lift  away.  The  men 
glanced  across  at  Dan,  and  one  murmured:  “Let  every 
herring  hang  by  its  own  gill;”  and  another  muttered: 
“  Every  man  to  the  mill  with  his  own  sack.” 

Davy  Fayle  lay  on  the  deck  a  few  paces  from  Dan.  The 
simple  lad  tried  to  recall  the  good  words  that  he  had  heard 
in  the  course  of  his  poor,  neglected,  battered  life.  One 
after  one  they  came  back  to  him,  most  of  them  from  some 
far-away  dreamland,  strangely  bright  with  the  vision  of  a 
face  that  looked  fondly  upon  him,  and  even  kissed  him 
tenderly.  “  Gentle  Jesus,”  and  “Now  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep” — he  could  remember  them  both  pretty  well,  and 
their  simple  words  went  up  with  the  supplicatory  ardor  of 
his  great-grown  heart  to  the  sky  on  which  his  eyes  were  bent 

The  men  lounged  about,  and  were  half  frozen.  No  one 
cared  to  go  below.  None  thought  of  a  fire.  Silence  and 
death  were  in  their  midst.  Once  again  their  hearts  turned 
to  home,  and  now  with  other  feelings.  They  could  see  the 
island  through  the  haze,  and  a  sprinkling  of  snow  dotted 
its  purple  bills.  This  brought  to  mind  the  bright  days  of 


17® 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


summer,  and  out  of  their  hopelessness  they  talked  of  the 
woods,  and  the  birds,  and  the  flowers.  “  D'ye  mind  my 
ould  mother's  bit  of  a  place  up  the  glen,”  said  Crennell, 
“  an’  the  wee  croft  afore  it  swaying  and  aflowing  same  as 
the  sea  in  the  softest  taste  of  a  south  breeze,  and  the  red 
ling  like  a  rod  of  goold  running  up  the  hedge,  and  the  fuchsia 
stretchin’  up  the  wall  of  the  loft,  and  drooping  its  red 
wrack  like  blood,  and  the  green  trammon  atop  of  the 
porch — d’ye  mind  it?”  And  the  men  said  “Ay,”  and 
brushed  their  eyes  with  their  sleeves.  Each  hard  man, 
with  despair  seated  on  his  rugged  face,  longed,  like  a  sick 
child,  to  lay  his  head  in  the  lap  of  home. 

It  was  Christmas  Day.  Old  Quilleash  remembered  this, 
and  they  talked  of  Christmas  Days  gone  by,  and  what 
happy  times  they  had  been.  Billy  began  to  tell  a  humor¬ 
ous  story  of  the  two  deaf  men,  Hommy-beg,  the  gardener, 
and  Jemmy  Quirk,  the  schoolmaster,  singing  against  each 
other  at  Oiel  Verree  ;  and  the  old  fellow’s  discolored 
teeth,  with  their  many  gaps  between,  grinned  horribly  like 
an  ape’s  between  his  frozen  jaws  when  he  laughed  so  hard. 
But  this  was  too  tender  a  chord,  and  soon  the  men  were 
silent  once  more.  Then,  while  the  waters  lay  cold  and 
clear  and  still,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  there 
came  floating  to  them  from  the  land,  through  the  breathless 
air,  the  sound  of  the  church  bells  ringing  at  home. 

It  was  the  last  drop  in  their  cup.  The  poor  fellows  could 
bear  up  no  longer.  More  than  one  dropped  his  head  to 
his  knees  and  sobbed  aloud.  Then  old  Quilleash,  in  a 
husky  voice,  and  coarsely,  almost  swearing  as  he  spoke, 
just  to  hide  his  shame  in  a  way,  said,  spitting  from  his 
quid,  “  Some  chap  pray  a  spell.”  “  Ay,  ay,”  said  another. 
H  Aw,  yes,”  said  a  third.  But  no  one  prayed.  “  You, Billy,” 
said  Ned  Teare.  Billy  shook  his  head.  The  old  man  had 
never  known  a  prayer.  “  It  was  Pazon  Ewan  that  was 
powerful  at  prayer,”  said  Crennell  “You,  Crennell.” 
Crennell  could  not  pray. 

All  lay  quiet  as  death  around  them,  and  only  the  faint 
sound  of  the  bells  was  borne  to  them  as  a  mellow  whisper. 
Then,  from  near  where  Dan  sat  by  the  hatches,  Davy 
Fayle  rose  silently  to  his  feet.  None  had  thought  of  him. 
With  the  sad  longing  in  his  big,  simple  eyes,  he  began  fib 
(Sing.  This  was  what  he  sang  : 

Lo !  He  comes  with  clouds  descendiq$ 

Once  for  favored  sinners  slain. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*11 

The  lad's  voice,  laden  with  tears,  floated  away  over  the 

freat  waters.  The  men  hung  their  heads,  and  were  mute. 

he  dried-up  well  of  Dan’s  eyes  moistened  at  last,  and 
down  his  hard  face  ran  the  glistening  tears  in  gracious 
drops  like  dew. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  there's  gold  on  the  cushags  yet.m 

Then  there  came  a  breath  of  wind.  At  first  it  was  soft 
as  an  angel’s  whisper.  It  grew  stronger,  and  ruffled  the 
sea.  Every  man  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his  mates. 
Each  was  struggling  with  a  painful  idea  that  perhaps  he 
was  the  victim  of  a  delusion  of  the  sense.  But  the  chili 
breath  of  the  wind  was  indeed  among  them. 

“Isn’t  it  beginning  to  puff  up  from  the  sou’-west?” 
asked  Crennell,  in  an  uncertain  whisper.  At  that  old 
Quilleash  jumped  to  his  feet.  The  idea  of  the  supernatu¬ 
ral  had  gone  from  him.  “  Now  for  the  sheets  and  to  make 
sail,”  he  cried,  and  spat  the  quid. 

One  after  one  the  men  got  up  and  bustled  about.  Their 
limbs  were  wellnigh  frozen  stiff.  All  was  stir  and  anima¬ 
tion  in  an  instant.  Pulling  at  the  ropes,  the  men  had  be¬ 
gun  to  laugh,  yes,  with  their  husky,  grating,  tear-drowned 
voices,  even  to  laugh  through  their  grisly  beards.  A  grue¬ 
some  sense  of  the  ludicrous  had  taken  hold  of  them.  It 
was  the  swift  reaction  from  solemn  thoughts.  When  the 
boat  felt  her  canvas  she  shook  herself  like^  sea-bird  try¬ 
ing  her  wings,  then  shot  off  at  full  flight. 

“  Bear  a  hand  there.  Lay  on,  man  alive.  Why,  you’re 
going  about  like  a  brewing-pan,  old  fellow.  Pull,  boy, 
pull.  What  are  your  arms  for,  eh  ?  ”  Old  Quilleash’s 
eyes,  which  had  been  dim  with  tears  a  moment  ago,  glis¬ 
tened  with  grisly  mischief.  “Who  hasn’t  heard  that  a 
Manxman’s  arms  are  three  legs  ?”  he  said  with  a  hungry 
grin.  How  the  men  laughed!  What  humor  there  was 
now  in  the  haggard  old  saw ! 

“  Where  are  you  for,  Billy  ?  ”  cried  Corkell. 

u  Peel,  boy,  Peel,  d - it,  Peel,”  shouted  Quilleash. 

“Hurroo !  Bould  fellow  !  Ha,  ha,  he,  he.” 

“  Hurroo  !  There’s  gold  on  the  cushags  yet.” 

How  they  worked !  In  two  minutes  the  mast  wai 
stepped,  the  mainsail  and  mizzen  were  up,  and  they  filled 
12 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


away  and  stood  out.  From  the  shores  of  death  they  had 
sailed  somehow  into  the  waters  of  life,  and  hope  was  theirs 
once  more. 

They  began  to  talk  of  what  had  caused  the  wind.  “  It 
was  the  blessed  St.  Patrick, ”  said  Corkell.  St.  Patrick 
was  the  patron  saint  of  that  sea,  and  Corkell  was  more 
than  half  a  Catholic,  his  mother  being  a  fishwife  from  Kin- 
sale. 

“  Saint  Patrick  be - cried  Ned  Teare,  with  a  scorn¬ 

ful  laugh,  and  they  got  to  words  and  at  length  almost  to 
blows. 

Old  Quilleash  was  at  the  tiller.  “  Drop  it,”  he  shouted, 
“ we’re  in  the  down  stream  for  Contrary,  and  we’ll  be  in 
harbor  in  ten  minutes.” 

“  God  A’mighty !  it’s  running  a  ten-knots  tide,”  said 
Teare. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  they  were  sailing  under  the 
castle  islet  up  to  the  wooden  pier,  having  been  eighteen 
hours  on  the  water. 

Not  a  man  of  the  four  had  given  a  thought  to  Dan, 
whether  he  wished  to  go  back  to  the  island,  or  to  make  a 
foreign  port  where  his  name  and  his  crime  would  be  un¬ 
known.  Only  the  lad  Davy  had  hung  about  him  where 
he  sat  by  the  hatches.  Dan’s  pale  face  was  firm  and  reso¬ 
lute,  and  the  dream  of  a  smile  was  on  his  hard-drawn  lips. 
But  his  despair  had  grown  into  courage,  and  he  knew  no 
fear  at  all. 

The  sun  was  down,  the  darkness  was  gathering,  and 
through  the  day-mist  the  dew  fog  was  rising  as  the  fishing 
boat  put  to  under  the  lee  of  a  lantern  newly  lighted,  that 
was  stuck  out  from  the  end  of  the  pier  on  a  pole.  The 
quay  was  almost  deserted.  Only  the  old  harbor-master 
was  there,  singing  out,  as  by  duty  bound,  his  lusty  oaths 
at  their  lumberings.  Never  before  did  the  old  grumbler’s 
strident  voice  sound  so  musical  as  now,  and  even  his  man¬ 
ifest  ill-temper  was  sweet  to-night,  for  it  seemed  to  tell 
the  men  that  thus  far  they  were  not  suspected. 

The  men  went  their  way  together,  and  Dan  went  off 
alone.  He  took  the  straightest  course  home.  Seven  long 
miles  over  a  desolate  road  he  tramped  in  the  darkness, 
and  never  a  star  came  out,  and  the  moon,  which  was  in 
its  last  quarter,  struggling  behind  a  rack  of  cloud,  light¬ 
ened  the  sky  sometimes,  but  did  not  appear.  As  he  passed 
through  Michael  he  noticed,  though  his  mind  was  preoc¬ 
cupied  and  his  perception  obscure,  that  Che  street  was 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


179 

IB^re  that  usually  silent,  and  that  few  lights  burned  be¬ 
hind  the  window-blinds.  Even  the  low  porch  of  the 
“  Three  Legs,”'  when  Dan  came  to  it,  was  deserted,  and 
hardly  the  sound  of  a  voice  came  from  within  the  little 
pot-house.  Only  in  a  vague  way  did  these  impressions 
communicate  themselves  to  Dan’s  stunned  intelligence  as 
he  plodded  along,  but  hardly  had  he  passed  out  of  the 
street  when  he  realized  the  cause  of  the  desolation.  A 
great  glow  came  from  a  spot  in  front  of  him,  as  of  many 
lanterns  and  torches  burning  together,  and  though  in  his 
bewilderment  he  had  not  noticed  it  before,  the  lights  lit 
all  the  air  about  them.  In  the  midst  of  these  lights  there 
came  and  went  out  of  the  darkness  the  figures  of  a  great 
company  of  people,  sometimes  bright  with  the  glare  on 
their  faces,  sometimes  black  with  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
torchlight. 

Obscure  as  his  ideas  were,  Dan  comprehended  every¬ 
thing  in  an  instant,  and,  chilled  as  he  was  to  the  heart’s 
core  by  the  terrors  of  the  last  night  and  day,  his  very 
bones  seemed  now  to  grow  cold  within  him. 

It  was  a  funeral  by  torchlight,  and  these  maimed  rites 
were,  by  an  ancient  usage,  long  disused,  but  here  re¬ 
vived,  the  only  burial  of  one  whose  death  had  been 
doubtful,  or  whose  body  had  washed  ashore  on  the  same 
day. 

The  people  were  gathered  on  the  side  of  the  churchyard 
near  to  the  high  road,  between  the  road  and  the  church. 
Dan  crept  up  to  the  opposite  side,  leapt  the  low  cobble 
wall,  and  placed  himself  under  the  shadow  of  the  vestry 
by  the  chancel.  He  was  then  standing  beneath  the  win¬ 
dow  he  had  leapt  out  of  in  his  effort  to  escape  the  Bishop 
on  that  Christmas  Eve  long  ago  of  his  boyish  freak  at  the 
Oiel  Verree. 

About  an  open  vault  three  or  four  mourners  were  stand¬ 
ing,  and,  a  little  apart  from  them  a  smoking  and  flicker¬ 
ing  torch  cast  its  light  on  their  faces.  There  was  the 
Bishop,  with  his  snowy  head  bare  and  deeply  bowed,  and 
there  by  his  elbow  was  Jarvis  Kerruish  in  his  cloak  and 
beaver,  with  arms  folded  under  his  chin.  And  walking  to 
and  fro,  from  side  to  side,  with  a  quick  nervous  step, 
breaking  out  into  alternate  shrill  cries  and  harsh  com¬ 
mands  to  four  men  who  had  descended  into  the  vault,  was 
the  little,  restless  figure  of  the  Deemster.  Behind  these, 
and  about  them  was  the  close  company  of  the  people,  with 
the  light  coming  and  going  on  their  faces,  a  deep  low 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


i*> 

murmur,  as  of  many  whispers  together,  rising  out  of  their 
midst. 

Dan  shook  from  head  to  foot.  His  heart  seemed  to 
stand  still.  He  knew  on  what  business  the  mourners  were 
met ;  they  were  there  to  bury  Ewan.  He  felt  an  impulse 
to  scream,  and  then  another  impulse  to  turn  and  fly.  But 
he  could  not  utter  the  least  cry,  and  quivering  in  every 
limb  he  could  not  stir.  Standing  there  in  silence  he  clung 
to  the  stone  wall  with  trembling  fingers. 

The  body  had  been  lowered  to  its  last  home,  and  the 
short  obsequies  began.  The  service  for  the  dead  was  not 
read,  but  the  Bishop  stretched  out  his  hands  above  the 
open  vault  and  prayed.  Dan  heard  the  words,  but  it  was 
as  if  he  heard  the  voice  only.  They  beat  on  his  dazed, 
closed  mind  as  a  sea-gull,  blown  by  the  wind,  beats  against 
a  window  on  a  stormy  night.  While  the  Bishop  prayed  in 
broken  accents,  the  deep  thick  boom  of  the  sea  came  up 
from  the  distant  shore  between  the  low-breathed  mur¬ 
murs  of  the  people. 

Dan  dropped  to  his  knees,  breathless  and  trembling. 
He  tried  to  pray,  too,  but  no  prayer  would  come.  His 
mind  was  beaten,  and  his  soul  was  barren.  His  father's 
faltering  voice  ceased,  and  then  a  half-stifled  moan  burst 
irom  his  own  lips.  In  the  silence  the  moan  seemed  to  fall 
on  every  ear,  and  the  quick  ear  of  the  Deemster  was  in¬ 
stantly  arrested.  “ Who's  that?"  he  cried,  and  twisted 
about. 

But  all  was  still  once  more,  and  then  the  people  began 
to  sing.  It  was  a  strange  sight,  and  a  strange  sound  :  the 
torches,  the  hard  furrowed  faces  in  the  flickering  light,  the 
white-headed  Bishop,  the  restless  Deemster,  and  the  voices 
ringing  out  in  the  night  over  the  open  grave.  And  from 
where  he  knelt  Dan  lifted  his  eyes,  and  by  the  light  of 
the  torches  he  saw  the  clock  in  the  church  tower;  the 
hands  still  stood  at  five. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  away.  His  step  fell  soft¬ 
ly  on  the  grass  of  the  churchyard.  At  one  instant  he 
thought  that  there  were  footsteps  behind  him.  He  stopped 
and  stretched  his  arms  half-fearfully  toward  the  sound. 
There  was  nothing.  After  he  had  leaped  the  cobble  wall, 
he  was  conscious  that  he  had  stopped  again,  and  was  lie» 
tening  as  though  to  learn  if  he  had  been  observed 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


181 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  RESURRECTION  INDEED. 

And  How  a  strange  accident  befell  him— strange  enough 
in  itself,  mysterious  in  its  significance,  and  marvellous  as 
one  of  God’s  own  miracles  in  its  results.  He  was  going 
to  give  himself  up  to  the  Deemster  at  Ballamona,  but  he 
did  not  any  longer  take  the  high  road  through  the  village, 
for  he  shrank  from  every  human  face.  Almost  without 
consciousness  he  followed  the  fenceless  cart-track  thafc 
went  by  the  old  lead  mine  known  as  the  Cross  Vein.  The 
disused  shaft  had  never  been  filled  up  and  never  even  en¬ 
closed  by  a  rail.  It  had  been  for  years  a  cause  of  anxiety, 
which  nothing  but  its  remoteness  on  the  lone  waste  of  the 
headland  had  served  to  modify.  And  now  Dan,  who  knew 
every  foot  of  the  waste,  and  was  the  last  man  to  whom 
danger  from  such  an  occasion  might  have  been  feared, 
plodding  along  with  absent  mind  in  the  darkness,  fell 
down  the  open  shaft. 

The  shaft  was  forty-five  fathoms  deep,  yet  Dan  was  not 
so  much  as  hurt.  At  the  bottom  were  nearly  twenty-five 
fathoms  of  water,  the  constant  drainage  of  the  old  work¬ 
ings,  which  rose  almost  to  the  surface,  or  dropped  a 
great  depth,  according  to  weather.  This  had  broxen  his 
fall.  On  coming  to  the  surface,  one  stroke  in  the  first  in¬ 
stant  of  dazed  consciousness  had  landed  him  on  a  narrow 
ledge  of  rock  that  raked  downward  from  the  seam.  But 
what  was  his  position  when  he  realized  it  ?  It  seemed  to 
be  worse  than  death  itself ;  it  was  a  living  death  ;  it  was 
burial  in  an  open  grave. 

Hardly  had  he  recovered  his  senses  when  he  heard  some¬ 
thing  stirring  overhead.  Were  they  footsteps,  those  thuds 
on  the  ear,  like  the  first  rumble  of  a  distant  thunder-cloud? 
In  the  agony  of  fear  he  tried  to  call,  but  his  tongue  clave 
to  his  mouth.  Then  there  was  some  talking  near  the 
mouth  of  the  shaft.  It  came  down  to  him  like  words 
shouted  through  a  black,  hollow,  upright  pillar. 

“No  use,  men,'1  said  one  speaker,  “not  a  foot  farther 
after  the  best  man  alive.  It’s  every  man  for  himself 
now,  and  I’ll  go  bail  it’s  after  ourselves  they’ll  be  going 
next.” 

And  then  another  voice,  laden  with  the  note  of  naiew 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


182 

cried,  44  But  they’ll  take  him,  Uncle  Billy,  they’ll  take  him, 
and  him  knowin’  nothin’.” 

44  Drove  it,  drove  it !  Come  along,  man  alive.  Lave  the 
lad  to  this  d — d  blather — you’d  better.  Let’s  make  a  slant 
for  it.  The  fac’s  is  agen  us.” 

Dan  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  human  voices.  Buried, 
as  he  was,  twenty-five  fathoms  beneath  the  surface,  the 
voices  came  to  him  like  the  voice  that  the  wind  might 
make  on  a  tempestuous  night,  if,  as  it  reaches  your  ear,  it 
whispered  words  and  fled  away. 

The  men  had  gone.  Who  were  they  ?  What  had  hap¬ 
pened  ?  Dan  asked  himself  if  he  had  not  remembered 
one  of  the  voices,  or  both.  His  mind  was  stunned  and  he 
could  not  think.  He  could  hardly  be  sure  that  in  very 
truth  he  was  conscious  of  what  occurred. 

Time  passed — he  knew  not  how  long  or  short — and  again 
he  heard  voices  overhead,  but  they  were  not  the  voices 
that  he  had  heard  before. 

44 1  apprehend  that  they  have  escaped  us.  But  they 
were  our  men  nevertheless.  I  have  had  advices  from  Peel 
that  the  boat  put  into  the  harbor  two  hours  ago.” 

44  Mind  the  old  lead  shaft,  sir.” 

Dan  was  conscious  that  a  footstep  approached  the  mouth 
of  the  shaft. 

44  What  a  gulf  !  Lucky  we  didn’t  tumble  down.” 

There  was  a  short  laugh — as  of  one  who  was  panting  af~ 
ter  a  sharp  run — at  the  mouth  of  Dan’s  open  grave. 

44  This  was  the  way  they  took,  sir ;  over  the  head  tow¬ 
ard  the  Curraghs.  They  were  not  half  wise,  or  they 
would  have  taken  the  mountains  for  it.” 

44  They  do  not  know  that  we  are  in  pursuit  of  them.  De¬ 
pend  upon  it  they  are  following  him  up  to  warn  him.  Af¬ 
ter  all,  it  may  have  been  his  voice  that  the  Deemster  heard 
in  the  churchyard.  He  is  somewhere  within  arm’s  reach,  j 
Let  us  push  on.” 

The  voices  ceased,  the  footsteps  died  off.  Forty  feet  of 
dull,  dead  rock  and  earth  had  carried  the  sounds  away  in 
an  instant.  44  Stop  ”  cried  Dan,  in  the  hurry  of  fear.  De- 
spair  made  him  brave  ;  fear  made  him  fearless.  There  was 
no  response.  He  was  alone  once  more,  but  Death  was 
with  him.  Then  in  the  first  moment  of  recovered  con¬ 
sciousness  he  knew  whose  voice  it  was  that  he  had  heard 
last,  and  he  thanked  God  that  his  call  had  not  been  an¬ 
swered.  It  was  the  voice  of  Jarvis  Kerruish.  In  agony 
of  despair  Dan  perceived  that  the  first  company  of  mea 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


183 


fi&d  beeft  Qmlleash  and  ^ie  fisher-fellows.  What  fatality 
had  prevented  him  from  crying  aloud  to  the  only  persons 
on  earth  who  could  have  rescued  and  saved  him  ?  Dan 
realized  that  his  crime  was  known,  and  that  he  was  now  a 
hunted  man. 

It  was  then  that  he  knew  how  hopeless  was  his  plight. 
He  must  not  cry  for  help  ;  he  must  stand  still  as  death  in 
his  deep  tomb.  To  be  lifted  out  of  this  pit  by  the  men 
who  were  in  search  of  him  would  be,  as  it  would  seem,  to 
be  dragged  from  his  hiding-place,  and  captured  in  a  feeble 
effort  to  escape.  What  then  of  his  brave  atonement  ? 
Who  would  believe  that  he  meant  to  make  it?  It  would 
be  a  mockery  at  which  the  veriest  poltroon  might  laugh. 

Dan  saw  now  that  death  encircled  him  on  every  side. 
To  remain  in  the  pit  was  death ;  to  be  lifted  out  of  it  was 
death  no  less  surely  ;  to  escape  was  hopeless.  But  not  so 
soon  is  hope  conquered  when  it  is  hope  of  life.  Cry  for 
help  he  must ;  be  dragged  out  of  this  grave  he  should,  let 
the  issue  be  what  it  could  or  would.  To  lie  there  and  die 
was  not  human.  To  live  was  the  first  duty,  the  first  ne¬ 
cessity,  be  the  price  of  life  no  less,  than  future  death. 

Dan  looked  up  at  the  sky  ;  it  was  a  small  square  patch 
of  leaden  gray  against  the  impenetrable  blackness  of  his 
prison-walls.  Standing  on  the  ledge  of  the  rock,  and 
steadying  himself  with  one  hand,  he  lifted  the  other  cau¬ 
tiously  upward  to  feel  the  sides  of  the  shaft.  They  were 
of  rock,  and  were  quite  precipitous,  but  had  rugged  pro¬ 
jecting  pieces  on  which  it  was  possible  to  lay  hold.  As  he 
grasped  one  of  these,  a  sickening  pang  of  hope  shot 
through  him,  and  wounded  him  worse  than  despair.  But 
it  was  gone  in  an  instant.  The  piece  of  rock  gave  way  in 
his  hand,  and  tumbled  into  the  water  below  him  with  a 
hollow  splash.  The  sides  of  the  shaft  were  of  crumbling 
stone ! 

It  was  then,  in  that  blind  laboring  of  despair,  that  he 
asked  himself  why  he  should  struggle  with  this  last  of  the 
misfortunes  that  had  befallen  him.  Was  life  so  dear  to 
him  ?  Not  so,  or,  being  dear,  he  was  willing  to  lay  it 
down.  Was  he  not  about  to  deliver  himself  to  the  death 
that  must  be  the  first  punishment  of  his  crime  ?  And 
what,  after  all,  was  there  to  choose  between  two  forms  of 
death  ?  Nay,  if  he  must  die,  who  was  no  longer  worthy 
of  life,  better  to  die  there,  none  knowing  his  way  of  death, 
than  to  die  on  the  gallows. 

At  that  thought  his  hair  rose  from  its  roots.  He  had 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


l$4 

never  rightly  put  it  to  himself  until  now  that  if  he  had  to 
die  for  the  death  of  Ewan  he  must  die  the  death  of  hang¬ 
ing.  That  horror  of  hanging  which  all  men  have  was 
stronger  in  Dan  than  in  most.  With  the  grim  vision  be¬ 
fore  him  of  a  shameful  and  damning  death  it  came  to  him 
to  tell  himself  that  better,  a  thousand  times  better,  was 
death  in  that  living  tomb  than  the  death  that  awaited  him 
outside  it.  Then  he  thought  of  his  father,  and  of  the 
abasement  of  that  good  man  if  so  great  a  shame  overtook 
his  son,  and  thereupon,  at  the  same  breath  with  a  prayer 
to  God  that  he  might  die  where  he  was,  a  horrible  blas¬ 
phemy  bolted  from  his  lips.  He  wTas  in  higher  hands  than 
his  own.  God  had  saved  him  from  himself.  At  least  he 
was  not  to  die  on  the  gallows.  He  had  but  one  prayer' 
now, and  it  cried  in  its  barrenness  of  hope,  “Let  me  never 
leave  this  place  !  ”  His  soul  was  crushed  as  the  moth  that 
will  never  lift  wing  again. 

But  at  that  his  agony  took  another  turn.  He  reflected 
that,  if  God’s  hand  was  keeping  him  from  the  just  punish¬ 
ment  of  his  crime,  God  was  holding  him  back  from  the 
atonement  that  was  to  wash  his  crime  away.  At  this 
thought  he  was  struck  with  a  great  trembling.  He  wres¬ 
tled  with  it,  but  it  would  not  be  overcome.  Had  he  not 
parted  with  Mona  with  the  firm  purpose  of  giving  himself 
up  to  the  law  ?  Yet  at  every  hour  since  that  parting  some 
impediment  had  arisen.  First,  there  were  the  men  in  the 
shed  at  the  creek,  their  resolve  to  bury  the  body,  and  his 
own  weak  acquiescence ;  then  came  the  dead  calm  out  at 
sea  when  he  stood  at  the  tiller,  and  the  long  weary  drift¬ 
ing  on  the  wide  waters;  and  now  there  was  this  last 
strange  accident.  It  was  as  if  a  higher  will  had  willed  it 
that  he  should  die  before  his  atonement  could  be  made. 
His  spirit  sunk  yet  lower,  and  he  was  for  giving  up  all  as 
lost.  In  the  anguish  of  despair  he  thought  that  in  very 
deed  it  must  be  that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable 
sin.  This  terrible  idea  clung  to  him  like  a  leech  at  a  vein. 
And  then  it  came  to  him  to  think  what  a  mockery  his 
dream  of  atonement  had  been.  What  atonement  could  a 
bad  man^make  for  spilling  the  blood  of  a  good  one  ?  He 
could  but  send  his  own  wasted  life  after  a  life  well  spent. 
Would  a  righteous  God  take  that  for  a  just  balance? 
Mockery  of  mockeries!  No,  no;  let  him  die  where  he 
now  was,  and  let  his  memory  be  blotted  out,  and  his  sin 
be  remembered  no  more. 

Jtie  tried  to  compose  himself,  and  pressed  one  hand  har<| 


THE  DEEMSTE&. 


i% 

at  his  breast  to  quiet  the  laboring  of  his  heart.  He  be¬ 
gan  to  reckon  the  moments.  In  this  he  had  no  object,  or 
none  save  only  that  mysterious  longing  of  a  dying  man  to 
know  how  the  hour  drags  on.  With  the  one  hand  that 
was  free  he  took  out  his  watch,  intending  to  listen  for  the 
beat  of  its  seconds  ;  but  his  watch  had  stopped ;  no  doubt 
it  was  full  of  water.  His  heart  beat  loud  enough.  Then 
he  went  on  to  count — one,  two,  three.  But  his  mind  was 
in  a  whirl,  and  he  lost  his  reckoning.  He  found  that  he 
had  stopped  counting,  and  forgotten  the  number.  Whether 
five  minutes  or  fifty  had  passed,  he  could  not  be  sure. 

But  time  was  passing.  The  wind  began  to  rise.  At  first 
Dan  felt  nothing  of  it  as  he  stood  in  his  deep  tomb.  He 
could  hear  its  thin  hiss  over  the  mouth  of  the  shaft,  and 
that  was  all.  But  presently  the  hiss  deepened  to  a  sough. 
Dan  had  often  heard  of  the  wind’s  sob.  It  was  a  reality, 
and  no  metaphor,  as  he  listened  to  the  wind  now.  The 
wind  began  to  descend.  With  a  great  swoop  it  came  down 
the  shaft,  licked  the  walls,  gathered  voice  from  the  echo¬ 
ing  water  at  the  bottom,  struggled  for  escape,  roared  like 
a  caged  lion,  and  was  once  more  sucked  up  to  the  surface, 
with  a  noise  like  the  breaking  of  a  huge  wave  over  a  reef. 
The  tumult  of  the  wind  in  the  shaft  was  hard  to  bear,  but 
when  it  was  gone  it  was  the  silence  that  seemed  to  be 
deafening.  Then  the  rain  began  to  fall  Dan  knew  this 
by  the  quick,  monotonous  patter  overhead.  But  no  rain 
touched  him.  It  was  driven  aslant  by  the  wind,  and  fell 
only  against  the  uppermost  part  of  the  walls  of  the  shaft. 
Sometimes  a  soft  thin  shower  fell  over  him.  It  was  like  a 
spray  from  a  cataract,  except  that  the  volume  of  water 
from  which  it  came  was  above  and  not  beneath  him. 

It  was  then  in  the  deadly  sickness  of  fear  that  there 
came  to  Dan  the  dread  of  miscarrying  forever  if  he  should 
die  now.  He  seemed  to  see  what  it  was  to  die  the  unre¬ 
deemed.  Not  to  be  forgiven,  but  to  be  forever  accursed, 
to  be  cut  off  from  the  living  that  live  in  God’s  peace — the 
dead  darkness  of  that  doom  stood  up  before  him.  Life 
had  looked  very  dear  to  him  before,  but  what  now  of  ever¬ 
lasting  death  ?  He  was  as  one  who  was  dead  .before  his 
death  came.  Live  he  could  not,  die  he  dared  not.  His 
past  life  rose  up  in. front  of  him,  and  he  drank  of  memory’s 
Very  dregs.  It  was  all  so  fearsome  and  strange  that  as  he 
recalled  its  lost  hours  one  by  one  it  was  as  if  he  were  a 
Stranger  to  himself.  He  saw  himself,  like  Esau,  who  for  a 
morsel  of  meat  had  sold  his  birthright,  and  could  thsrg&fte* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

find  no  acceptance,  though  he  sought  it  with  tears.  The 
Scripture  leaped  to  his  mind  which  says,  “  It  is  a  fearful 
thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  living  God.” 

And  then  from  the  past  to  the  future  his  mind  went  on 
in  a  rapid  and  ceaseless  whirl.  He  saw  himself  fleeing  as 
from  the  face  of  a  dreadful  judge.  Tossed  with  the  terror 
of  a  dreadful  doom,  he  saw  his  place  in  the  world,  cold, 
empty,  forsaken.  Pie  saw  his  old  father,  too,  the  saintly 
Bishop,  living  under  the  burden  of  a  thousand  sorrows, 
while  he  who  was  the  life  of  the  good  man’s  life,  but  his 
no  longer,  was  a  restless,  wandering  soul,  coming  as  a 
cold  blast  of  wind  between  him  and  his  heaven.  That 
thought  was  the  worst  terror  of  all,  and  Dan  heard  a  cry 
burst  from  his  throat  that  roused  echoes  of  horror  in  the 
dark  pit. 

Then,  as  if  his  instinct  acted  without  help  from  his  mind, 
Dan  began  to  contemplate  measures  for  escape.  That  unex¬ 
pected  softness  of  the  rock  which  had  at  first  appalled  him 
began  now  to  give  him  some  painful  glimmerings  of  hope. 
If  the  sides  of  the  shaft  had  been  of  the  slate  rock  of  the 
island  the  ledge  he  had  laid  hold  of  would  not  have  crum¬ 
bled  in  his  hand.  That  it  was  soft  showed  that  there 
must  be  a  vein  of  sandstone  running  across  the  shaft. 
Dan’s  bewildered  mind  recalled  the  fact  that  Orris  Head 
was  a  rift  of  red  sand  and  soft  sandstone.  If  this  vein 
were  but  deep  enough  his  safety  was  assured.  He  could 
cut  niches  into  it  with  a  knife,  and  so,  perhaps,  after  in¬ 
finite  pain  and  labor,  reach  the  surface. 

Steadying  himself  with  one  hand,  Dan  felt  in  his  pock¬ 
ets  for  his  knife.  It  was  not  there  !  Now  indeed  his  death 
seemed  certain.  He  was  icy  cold  and  feverishly  hot  at 
intervals.  His  clothes  were  wet ;  the  water  still  dripped 
from  them,  and  fell  into  the  hidden  tarn  beneath  in  hollow 
drops.  But  not  to  hope  now  would  have  been  not  to  fear. 
Dan  remembered  that  he  had  a  pair  of  small  scissors  which 
he  had  used  three  days  ago  in  scratching  his  name  on  the 
silver  buckle  of  his  militia  belt.  When  searching  for  his 
knife  he  had  felt  it  in  his  pocket,  and  spurned  it  for  re¬ 
sembling  the  knife  to  the  touch  of  his  nervous  fingers. 
Now  it  was  to  be  his  sole  instrument.  He  found  it  again, 
and  with  this  paltry  help  he  set  himself  to  his  work  of  es¬ 
cape  from  the  dark,  deep  tunnel  that  stood  upright. 

The  night  was  wearing  on  ;  hour  after  hour  went  by. 
The  wind  dropped  ;  the  rain  ceased  to  patter  overhead. 
Dan  toiled  on  step  over  step.  Resting  sometimes  ou  the 


THE  DEEMSTER* 


i8j 

forges':  and  firmest  of  the  projecting  ledges,  he  looked  up 

the  sky.  The  leaden  gray  had  cnanged  to  a  dark  blue, 
studded  with  stars.  The  moon  *rose  very  late,  being  in 
its  last  quarter,  and  much  beset  by  rain-clouds.  It  shone 
a  little  way  down  the  shaft,  lighting  all  the  rest.  Da* 
knew  it  must  be  early  morning.  One  star,  a  large,  full 
globe  of  light,  twinkled  directly  above  him.  He  sat 
long  and  watched  it,  and  turned  again  and  again  in  hi 6 
toilsome  journey  to  look  at  it.  At  one  moment  it  crept 
into  his  heart  that  the  star  was  a  symbol  of  hope  to  him.- 
Then  he  twisted  back  to  his  work,  and  when  he  looked 
ugain  the  star  was  gone — it  had  moved  beyond  his  ken, 
it  had  passed  out  of  the  range  of  his  narrow  spot  of  heaven. 
Somehow,  it  had  been  a  mute  companion. 

Dan’s  spirit  sunk  in  his  cheerless  solitude,  but  he  toiled 
on.  His  strength  was  far  spent.  The  moon  died  off,  and 
the  stars  went  out  one  after  one.  Then  a  deep  cloud  of 
darkness  overspread  the  little  sky  above.  Dan  knew  it 
must  be  the  darkness  that  precedes  the  dawn.  He  had 
reached  a  ledge  of  rock  that  was  wider  than  any  of  the 
ledges  that  were  beneath  it.  Clearly  enough  a  wooden 
rafter  had  lain  along  it.  Dan  rested  and  looked  up.  At 
that  moment  he  heard  the  light  patter  of  little  feet  over¬ 
head.  It  was  a  stray  sheep,  a  lamb  of  last  year’s  flock, 
wandering  and  lost.  Though  he  could  not  see  it,  he  knew 
it  was  there,  and  it  bleated  down  the  shaft.  The  melan¬ 
choly  cry  of  the  lost  creature  in  that  dismal  place  touched 
a  seared  place  on  Dan’s  heart,  and  made  the  tears  which 
he  had  not  shed  until  now  to  start  from  his  eyes.  What 
old  memory  did  it  awaken  ?  He  could  not  recall  it  at 
first,  but  then  he  remembered  the  beautiful  story  which 
he  had  heard  many  times  of  the  lost  lamb  that  came  to 
the  church  porch  at  the  christening  of  Ewan.  Was  it 
strange  that  there  and  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Ewan’s 
child,  the  babe  that  was  innocent  of  its  great  sorrows  to 
come  ?  He  began  to  wish  himself  a  little  child  again, 
walking  by  his  father’s  hand,  with  all  the  years  rolled 
back,  and  all  the  transgressions  of  the  years  blotted  out  as 
a  cloud,  and  with  a  new  spirit  sweet  and  fresh,  where  now 
was  a  spirit  seared  and  old,  and  one  great  aching  wound. 
In  a  moment  the  outcast  lamb  went  off,  sending  up,  as 
it  went,  its  pitiful  cry  into  the  night.  Dan  was  alone  once 
more,  but  that  visitation  had  sweetly  refreshed  his  spirit. 

Then  it  came  back  to  him  to  think  that  of  a  surety  it 

Was  not  a 1L  one  whether  he  died  where  he  was,  never  com- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


s*S 

ing  alive  from  his  open  tomb,  or  died  for  his  crime  before 
the  faces  of  all  men.  He  must  live,  he  must  live,  though 
not  for  life’s  sake,  but  to  rob  death  of  its  worst  terrors. 
And  as  for  the  impediments  that  had  arisen  to  prevent 
the  atonement  on  which  his  mind  was  set,  they  were  not 
from  God  to  lay  his  soul  outside  the  reach  of  mercy,  but 
from  the  devil  to  beset  him  and  keep  him  back  from  the 
washing  away  of  his  sin.  This  thought  revived  him,  and 
he  turned  to  his  task  with  a  new  resolve. 

His  fingers  were  chilled  to  the  bone,  and  his  clothes 
clung  like  damp  cerements  to  his  body.  The  meagre 
blades  of  the  scissors  were  worn  short ;  they  could  not  last 
long.  He  rose  to  his  feet  on  the  ledge  of  rock,  and 
plunged  the  scissors  into  the  blank  wall  above  him,  and  at 
that  a  fresh  disaster  seemed  to  overwhelm  him.  His  hand 
went  into  soft  earth  ;  the  vein  of  rock  had  finished,  and 
above  it  must  be  loose,  uncertain  mould! 

He  gasped  at  the  discovery.  A  minute  since  life  had 
looked  very  dear.  Must  he  abandon  his  hopes  after  all  ? 
He  might  have  been  longer  vexed  with  this  new  fear,  but 
that  he  recalled  at  that  moment  the  words  spoken  by 
Jarvis  Kerruish  as  he  went  by  on  the  road  that  ran  near 
the  mouth  of  the  shaft.  Was  it  not  clear  that  Quilleash 
and  the  fisher-fellows  were  being  pursued  as  his  associ¬ 
ates?  Without  his  evidence  to  clear  them,  would  they  not 
6urely  suffer,  innocent  though  they  might  be,  and  even 
though  he  himself  lay  dead  in  this  place  ?  Now,  indeed, 
he  saw  that  he  must  of  a  certainty  escape  from  this  death 
in Jife,  no  difficulties  conquering  him. 

Dan  paused  and  reflected.  As  nearly  as  he  could  re¬ 
member,  he  had  made  twenty  niches  in  the  rock.  Hence, 
he  must  be  fully  thirty-five  feet  from  the  water  and  ten 
from  the  surface.  Only  ten  feet,  and  then  freedom !  Yet 
these  ten  seemed  to  represent  an  impossibility.  To  ascend 
by  holes  dug  deep  in  the  soft  earth  was  a  perilous  enter¬ 
prise.  A  great  clot  of  soil  might  at  any  moment  give  way 
above  or  beneath  him,  and  then  he  would  be  plunged 
once  more  into  the  pit.  If  he  fell  from  the  side  of  the 
shaft  he  would  be  more  likely  than  at  first,  when  he  fell 
from  the  top,  to  strike  on  one  of  the  projecting  ledges  and 
be  killed  before  reaching  the  water. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  Per¬ 
haps  the  daylight  would  reveal  some  less  hazardous 
method  of  escape.  Slowly  the  dull,  dead,  impenetrable 
blackness  was  lifted  off,  It  was  as  though  a  spirit  had 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


189 

breathed  on  the  night,  and  it  fled  away.  When  the 
woolly  hue  of  morning  dappled  his  larger  sky,  Dan  could 
hear  the  slow  beat  of  the  waves  on  the  shore.  The  coast 
rose  up  before  his  vision  then,  silent,  solemn,  alone  with 
the  dawn.  The  light  crept  into  his  prison-house,  and  he 
looked  down  at  the  deep  black  tarn  beneath  him. 

And  now  hope  rose  in  his  heart  again.  Overhead  he 
saw  timbers  running  around  and  across  the  shaft.  These 
had  been  used  to  bank  up  the  earth,  and  to  make  two 
grooves  in  which  the  ascending  and  descending  cages  had 
once  worked.  Dan  lifted  up  his  soul  in  thankfulness. 
The  world  was  once  more  full  of  grace  even  for  him.  He 
could  climb  from  stay  to  stay,  and  so  reach  the  surface. 
Catching  one  of  the  stays  in  his  uplifted  hands,  he  swung 
his  knee  on  to  another.  One  stage  he  accomplished,  and 
then  how  stiff  were  his  joints,  and  how 'sinewless  his  fin* 
gers  !  Another  and  another  stage  he  reached,  and  then 
four  feet  and  no  more  were  between  him  and  the  gorse 
that  waved  in  the  light  of  the  risen  sun  across  the  mouth 
of  his  night-long  tomb. 

But  the  rain  of  years  had  eaten  into  these  timbers.  In 
some  places  they  crumbled,  and  were  rotten.  God !  how 
the  one  on  which  he  rested  creaked  under  him  at  that  in¬ 
stant!  Another  minute,  and  then  his  toilsome  journey 
would  be  over.  Another  minute,  and  his  dead  self  would 
be  left  behind  him,  buried  forever  in  this  grave.  Then 
there  would  be  a  resurrection  in  very  truth.  Yes,  truly, 
God  helping  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  Dan  Mylrea,  with  swimming  eyes 
and  a  big  heart,  was  walking  toward  the  Deemster  at  Bal- 
lamona.  The  flush  of  the  sun  newly  risen,  and  the 
brighter  glory  of  a  great  hope  newly  born,  was  on  his 
worn  and  pallid  cheek.  What  terrors  had  life  for  him 
now  ?  It  had  none.  And  very  soon  death  also  would  lose 
its  sting.  Atonement !  atonement !  It  was  even  as  he 
had  thought :  a  wasted  life  for  a  life  well  spent,  the  life  of 
a  bad  man  for  the  life  of  a  good  one,  but  all  he  had  to 
give — all,  all ! 

And  when  he  came  to  lay  his  offering  at  the  merciful 
Father’s  feet  it  wouldi  not  be  spurned. 


.*9° 


THE  DEEMSTER* 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HOW  EWAN  CAME  TO  CHURCH. 

It  is  essential  to  the  progress  of  this  history  that  we 
should  leave  Dan  where  he  now  is,  in  the  peace  of  a  great 
soul  newly  awakened,  and  go  back  to  the  beginning  of 
this  Christmas  Day  on  shore. 

The  parish  of  Michael  began  that  day  with  all  its  old 
observances.  While  the  dawn  of  Christmas  morning  was 
struggling  but  feebly  with  the  night  of  Christmas-eve  a 
gang  of  the  baser  sort  went  out  with  lanterns  and  long- 
sticks  into  the  lanes,  there  to  whoop  and  beat  the  bushes.  ! 
It  was  their  annual  hunting  of  the  wren.  Before  the  par-  -: 
ish  had  sat  down  to  its  Christmas  breakfast  two  of  these;? 
lusty  enemies  of  the  tiny  bird  were  standing  in  the  street 
of  the  village  with  a  long  pole  from  shoulder  to  shoulder 
and  a  wee  wren  suspended  from  the  middle  of  it.  Their  \ 
brave  companions  gathered  round  and  plucked  a  feather 
from  the  wren's  breast  now  and  again.  At  one  side  of  the  | 
company,  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  children,  was  Horn- ii; 
my-beg,  singing  a  carol  and  playing  his  own  accompani-  j 
ment  on  his  fiddle.  The  carol  told  a  tragic  story  of  an  evil 
spirit  in  the  shape  of  a  woman  who  pestered  the  island  in 
the  old  days,  of  how  the  people  rose  up  against  her  to 
drive  her  into  the  sea,  and  of  how  she  turned  herself  into 
a  wren,  and  all  on  the  holy  day  of  the  blessed  Saint 
Stephen.  A  boy  whose  black  eyes  danced  with  a  mis¬ 
chievous  twinkle  held  a  crumpled  paper  upside  down  be¬ 
fore  the  gardener,  and  from  this  inverted  text  and  score 
the  unlettered  coxcomb  pretended  to  play  and  sing.  The 
women  came  to  their  doors  to  listen,  and  the  men  with 
their  two  hands  in  their  breeches-pockets  leaned  against 
the  ends  of  their  houses  and  smoked  and  looked  on  sleep- 
ily.  .  j 

When  the  noisy  crowd  had  passed,  the  street  sunk  back 
to  its  customary  repose,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  a 
child — a  little  auburn-haired  lassie,  in  a  white  apron 
tucked  up  in  fish-wife  fashion — crying,  “  Shrimps,  fine 
shrimps,  fresh  shrimps  !  ”  and  then  by  a  lustier  voice  that 
drowned  the  little  lassie's  tones,  and  cried,  “  Conger—* 
conger  eel — fine,  ladies — fresh,  ladies— and  bellies  as  big 
as  bishops  !  Conger  eel — con-ger  !  ” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


It  was  not  a  brilliant  morning,  but  the  sun  was  shining 
Jrowsily  through  a  white  haze  like  a  dew-fog  that  hid  the 
mountains.  The  snow  of  the  night  before  was  not  quite 
washed  away  by  the  sharp  rain  of  the  morning  ;  it  still  lay 
\t  the  eaves  of  the  thatched  houses,  and  among  the  cob¬ 
bles  of  the  paved  pathway.  The  blue  smoke  was  coiling 
up  through  the  thick  air  from  every  chimney  when  the 
bells  at  Bishop’s  Court  began  to  ring  for  Christmas  ser¬ 
vice.  An  old  woman  here  and  there  came  out  of  her 
cabin  in  her  long  blue  cape  and  her  mutch,  and  hobbled 
along  on  a  stick  to  church.  Two  or  three  men  in  sea- 
boots,  with  shrimping  nets  over  their  shoulders  and  pipes 
in  their  mouths,  sauntered  down  the  lane  that  led  by  the 
shambles  to  the  shore. 

Half  an  hour  later,  while  the  bells  were  still  ringing, 
and  the  people  were  trooping  into  the  chapel,  the  Bishop 
came  out  of  his  house  and  walked  down  the  path  toward 
the  vestry.  He  had  a  worn  and  jaded  look  that  morning, 
as  if  the  night  had  gone  heavily  with  him,  but  he  smiled 
when  the  women  courtesied  as  they  passed,  and  waved  his 
hand  when  the  men  fumbled  their  caps. 

“  Good-morning,  and  a  merry  Christmas  to  you,”  he  said, 
as  he  went  by  the  open  porch,  to  Will-as-Thorn,  the  parish 
clerk,  who  was  tugging  at  the  bell-rope  there,  bareheaded, 
stripped  to  his  sheepskin  waistcoat  with  its  gray  flannel 
sleeves,  and  sweating. 

He  hailed  Billy  the  Gawk,  too,  the  hoary  old  dog  turned 
penitent  in  his  latter  days.  “  A  merry  Christmas,  Billy, 
and  may  you  live  to  see  many  of  them  yet,  please  God  !  ” 

Billy  was  leaning  against  the  porch  buttress  and  taking 
alms  if  any  offered  them. 

“  Then  it’s  not  living  it  will  be,  my  lord  ;  it’s  lingering,” 
said  this  old  Bartimeus. 

And  Jabez  Gawne,  the  sleek  little  tailor,  had  the  Bish¬ 
op’s  salutation  as  he  passed  on  in  the  ancient  cloak  with 
many  buttons. 

“A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  Jabez,  and  a  good  New 
Year.” 

“Aw,  'deed,  my  lord,”  said  Jabez,  with  a  face  as  long  as 
a  fiddle,  “  if  the  New  Year’s  no  better  than  the  ould  one, 
what  with  quiet  times  and  high  rents  and  the  children’s 
schooling,  it’s  going  on  the  houses  I’ll  be,  middlin’  safe.” 

“Nay,  nay,  remember  our  old  saying,  Jabez  :  The  great¬ 
er  the  calm  the  nearer  the  south  wind.” 

As  the  Bishop  was  turning  in  at  the  vestry  door,  blind 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*92 

Kerry  and  het  husband  Hommy  passed  him,  and  he  hailed 
them  as  he  had  hailed  the  others. 

44  I’m  taking  joy  to  see  you  so  hearty,  my  lord,”  said 
the  blind  woman. 

44 Yes,  I'm  well,  on  the  whole,  thank  God!”  said  the 
Bishop  ;  44  and  how  are  you,  Kerry  ?  ” 

44  I’m  in,  myjord — I'm  in  ;  but  distracted  mortal  with  the 
sights.  Och,  sir,  it’s  allis  the  sights,  and  the  sights,  and 
the  sights  ;  and  it’s  Mastha  Dan  that’s  in  them  still.  This 
morning,  bless  ye,  when  I  woke,  what  should  it  be,  be- 
hould  ye,  but  a  company  of  great  ones  from  the  big  house 
itself,  going  down  to  the  churchyard  with  lanterns.  Aw, 
’deed  it  was,  rdr,  my  lord,  begging  your  pardon,  though  it’s 
like  enough  you’ll  think  it's  wake  and  a  kind  of  silly,  as 
the  sayin’  igu” 

The  Bishop  listened  to  the  blind  woman’s  garrulous 
tongue  with  a  downcast  head  and  a  look  of  pain,  and  said, 
in  a  subdued  voice,  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  wooden  latch 
of  the  vestry  door  : 

44  It  i§  not  for  me  to  laugh  at  you,  Kerry,  woman.  All 
night  long  I  have  myself  been  tortured  by  an  uneasy  feel- 1 
ing,  which  would  not  be  explained  or  yet  be  put  away. 
But  let  us  say  no  more  of  such  mysteries.  There  are  dark 
places  that  we  may  never  hope  to  penetrate.  Let  it  con¬ 
tent  u&  if,  in  God’s  mercy  and  his  wisdom,  we  can  see  thel 
step  that  is  at  our  feet.” 

So  saying,  the  Bishop  turned  about  and  passed  in  at  the 
door.  Kerry  and  her  husband  went  into  the  chapel  at  the 
west  porch. 

“It's  just  an  ould  angel  he  is,”  whispered  Kerry,  reach¬ 
ing  up  to  Hommy’s  ear,  as  they  went  by  Will-as-Thorn. 

“Aw,  yes,  yes,”  said  Hommy-beg,  44 a  rael  ould  archan¬ 
gel,  so  he  is.” 

And  still  the  bells  rang  for  the  service  of  Christmas 
morning. 

Inside  the  chapel  the  congregation  was  larger  than 
common.  There  was  so  much  hand-shaking  and  44  taking 
of  joy  ”  to  be  gone  through  in  the  aisles  and  the  pews  that 
Christmas  morning  that  it  was  not  at  first  observed — ex¬ 
cept  by  malcontents  like  Billy  the  Gawk  and  Jabez  Gawne, 
to  whom  the  wine  of  life  wasvmostly  vinegar — when  the 
hour  for  beginning  the  service  had  come  and  gone.  The 
choir  in  the  west  gallery  had  taken  their  places  on  either 
side  of  Will-as-Thorn’s  empty  seat  over  the  clock,  with  the 
pitch-pipe  resting  on  the  rail  above  it,  and  opening  their 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


'93 


jocks,  they  faced  about  for  gossip.  Then  the  bell  stopped, 
laving  rung  some  minutes  longer  than  was  its  wont ;  the 
whispering  was  hushed  from  pew  to  choir,  and  only  the 
;ound  of  the  turning  of  the  leaves  of  many  books  dis- 
urbed  the  silence  a  moment  afterward. 

The  Bishop  entered  the  chancel,  and  while  he  knelt  to 
)ray,  down  like  corn  before  a  south  wind  went  a  hundred 
leads  on  to  the  book-rail  before  the  wind  of  custom. 
ftTien  the  Bishop  rose  there  was  the  sound  of  shuffling 
md  settling  in  the  pews,  followed  by  some  craning  of 
leeks  in  his  direction  and  some  subdued  whispering. 
u  Where  is  Pazon  Ewan  ?  ” 

“What’s  come  of  the  young  pazon  ?” 

The  Bishop  sat  alone  in  the  chancel,  and  gave  no  sign 
}f  any  intention  to  commence  the  service.  In  the  gal- 
ery,  the  chotr,  books  in  hand,  waited  for  Will-as-Thorn  to 
iake  his  seat  over  the  clock  ;  but  his  place  remained  emp- 
y.  Then,  to  the  universal  surprise,  the  bell  began  to 
dng  again.  Steadily  at  first  and  timidly,  and  after  that 
with  lusty  voice  the  bell  rang  out  over  the  heads  of  the 
istonished  people.  Forthwith  the  people  laid  those  same 
leads  together  and  wdiispered. 

What  was  agate  of  Pazon  Ewan?  Had  he  forgotten 
that  he  had  to  preach  that  morning  ?  Blind  Kerry  wanted 
to  know  if  some  of  the  men  craythurs  shouldn’t  just  take 
a  slieu  round  to  the  ould  Ballamona  and  wake  him  u^?  as 
the  saying  is  ;  but  Mr.  Quirk,  in  more  “gintale  ”  phr&seol- 
i  as  became  his  scholastic  calling,  gave  it  out  as  proba¬ 
ble  that  the  young  pazon  had  only  been  making  a  “little 
deetower”  after  breakfast,  and  gone  a  little  too  far. 

Still  the  bell  rang,  and  the  uneasy  shuffling  in  the  pews 
!  grew  more  noticeable.  Presently,  in  the  middle  of  an 
abridged  movement  of  the  iron  tongue  in  the  loft,  the 
head  and  shoulders  of  Will-as-Thorn  appeared  in  the  open¬ 
ing  of  the  green  curtain  that  divided  the  porch  from  the 
body  of  the  chapel,  and  the  parish  clerk  beckoned  to 
Hommy-beg.  Shambling  to  his  feet  an  i  down  the  aisle, 
Hommy  obeyed  the  summons,  and  then,  amid  yet  more 
vigorous  bobbing  together  of  many  h^ads  in  the  pews,  the 
schoolmaster,  not  to  be  eclipsed  atr,  moment  of  public  ex¬ 
citement,  got  up  also  and  followe  d  the  gardener  into  the 
porch.  The  whispering  had  ris6B-  to  a  sibilant  hiss  that 
deadened  even  the  bell’s  loud  clangor  When  little  Jabe* 
Gawne  himself  felt  a  call  to  rise  and  go  out  after  the 
others. 

18 


104 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


All  this  time  the  Bishop  sat  motionless  in  the  chancel* 
his  head  down,  his  face  rather  paler  than  usual,  his  whole 
figure  somewhat  weak  and  languid,  as  if  continued  suffer¬ 
ing  in  silence  and  in  secret  had  at  length  taken  the  power 
of  life  out  of  him.  Presently  the  bell  stopped  suddenly, 
and  almost  instantly  little  Jabez,  with  a  face  as  sharp  as  a 
pen,  came  back  to  his  pew,  and  Mr.  Quirk  also  returned 
to  his  place,  shaking  his  head  meantime  with  portentous 
gravity.  A  moment  later  Will-as-Thorn  appeared  inside 
the  communion-rail,  having  put  on  his  coat  and  whipped 
the  lash  comb  through  his  hair,  which  now  hung  like  a 
dozen  of  wet  dip-candles  down  his  forehead  straight  for 
his  eyes. 

The  dull  buzz  of  gossip  ceased,  all  was  dead  silence  in 
the  chapel,  and  many  necks  were  craned  forward  as  Will- 
as-Thorn  was  seen  to  go  up  to  the  Bishop  and  speak  to 
him.  Listening  without  much  apparent  concern,  the 
Bishop  nodded  his  head  once  or  twice,  then  rose  immedi¬ 
ately  and  walked  to  the  reading-desk.  Almost  at  the  same 
moment  Will-as-Thorn  took  his  seat  over  the  clock  in  the 
little  west  gallery,  and  straightway  the  service  began. 

The  choir  sung  the  psalm  which  they  had  practised  at  < 
the  parish  church  the  evening  before — “It  is  good  for  me 
that  I  have  been  in  trouble,  that  I  may  learn  thy  statutes.”  1 
For  the  first  of  his  lessons  the  Bishop  read  the  story  of  : 
Eli  and  of  Samuel,  and  of  the  taking  by  the  Philistines  of 
the  ark  of  the  covenant  of  God.  His  voice  was  deep  and  : 
measured,  and  when  he  came  to  read  of  the  death  of  Eli's 
sons,  and  of  how  the  bad  news  was  brought  to  Eli,  his  voice 
softened  and  all  but  broke. 

“And  there  ran  a  man  of  Benjamin  out  of  the  army,  and 
came  to  Shiloh  the  same  day  with  his  clothes  rent,  and 
W\th  eart^i  upon  his  head. 

“And  when  he  came,  lo,  Eli  sat  upon  a  seat  by  the  way- 
side  watching ;  for  his  heart  trembled  for  the  ark  of  God. 
And  when  the  man  came  into  the  city,  and  told  it,  all  the 
city  cried  out. 

“And  when  Eli  heard  the  noise  of  the  crying,  he  said, 
‘What  meaneth  the  noise  of  this  tumult?1  And  the  man 
came  in  hastily  and  told  Eli. 

“Now  Eli  was  ninety  and  eight  years  old,  and  his  eyes 
were  dim  that  he  could  not  see. 

“And  the  man  said  unto  Eli,  *1  am  he  that  came  out  of 
the  army,  r.nd  I  fled  to-day  out  of  the  army/  And  he  saidf 
What  is  there  done,  my  son  ?  ’  ” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*9S 

The  Bishop  preached  but  rarely  now,  and  partly  for  the 
reverence  they  always  owed  the  good  man,  and  partly  for 
the  reason  that  they  did  not  often  hear  him,  the  people 
composed  themselves  to  a  mood  of  sympathy  as  he  as¬ 
cended  the  pulpit  that  Christmas  morning.  It  was  a  beau¬ 
tiful  sermon  that  he  gave  them,  and  it  was  spoken  without 
premeditation,  and  was  loose  enough  in  its  structure.  But 
ft  was  full  of  thought  that  seemed  to  be  too  simple  to  be 
deep,  and  of  emotion  that  was  too  deep  to  be  anything  but 
simple.  It  touched  on  the  life  of  Christ,  from  his  birth  in 
Bethlehem  to  his  coming  as  a  boy  to  the  Temple  where 
the  doctors  sat,  and  so  on  to  the  agony  in  the  garden. 
And  then  it  glanced  aside,  as  touchingly  as  irrelevantly, 
at  the  story  of  Eli  and  his  sons,  and  the  judgment  of  God 
on  Israel's  prophet.  In  that  beautiful  digression  the  Bish¬ 
op  warned  all  parents  that  it  was  their  duty  before  God  to 
bring  up  their  children  in  God's  fear,  or  theirs  would  be 
the  sorrow,  and  their  children's  the  suffering  and  the  shame 
everlasting.  And  then  in  a  voice  that  could  barely  sup¬ 
port  itself  he  made  an  allusion  that  none  could  mistake. 

“  Strange  it  is,  and  very  pitiful,"  he  said,  “that  what  we 
think  in  our  weakness  to  be  the  holiest  of  our  human  af¬ 
fections  may  be  a  snare  and  a  stumbling-block.  Strange 
enough,  surely,  and  very  sad,  that  even  as  the  hardest  of 
soul  among  us  all  may  be  free  from  blame  where  his  chil¬ 
dren  stand  for  judgment,  so  the  tenderest  of  heart  may, 
like  Eli  of  old,  be  swept  from  the  face  of  the  living  God 
for  the  iniquity  of  his  children,  which  he  has  not  restrained. 
But  the  best  of  our  earthly  passions,  or  what  seem  to  be 
the  best,  the  love  of  the  mother  for  the  babe  at  her  breast, 
the  pride  of  the  father  in  the  son  that  is  flesh  of  his  flesh, 
must  be  indulged  with  sin  if  it  is  not  accepted  with  grace. 
True,  too  true,  that  there  are  those  of  us  who  may  cast  no 
stone,  who  should  offer  no  counsel.  Like  Eli,  we  know 
that  the  word  of  God  has  gone  out  against  us,  and  we  can 
but  bend  our  foreheads  and  say,  ‘It  is  the  Lord,  let  him 
do  what  seemeth  him  good.'  " 

When  the  sermon  ended  there  was  much  needless  in¬ 
dustry  in  searching  for  books  under  the  book-rail,  much 
furtive  wiping  of  the  eyes,  much  demonstrative  blowing 
of  the  nose,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  benediction  a  good 
deal  of  subdued  whispering. 

“Aw,  'deed,  the  ould  Bishop  bates  the  young  pazon 
himself  at  putting  out  the  talk — studdier-like,  and  not 
fiery  maybe ;  but,  man  alive,  the  tender  he  is !  ” 


THE  DEEM&TER. 


“  And  d’ye  mind  that  taste  about  Eli  and  t*hem  two  idiot 
waistrels  Hoffnee  and  Fin-e-ass  ?  ” 

“And  did  ye  observe  the  ould  man  thrembling  mortal?” 
“  Och,  yes,  and  I’ll  go  bail  it  wasn’t  them  two  black- 
yards  he  was  thinking  of,  at  all,  at  all.” 

When  the  service  came  to  an  end,  and  the  congregation 
was  breaking  up,  and  Billy  the  Gawk  was  hobbling  down 
the  aisle  on  a  pair  of  sticks,  that  hoary  old  sinner,  turned 
saint  because  fallen  sick,  was  muttering  something  about 
“  a  rael  good  ould  father,”  and  “  dirts  like  than  Dan,”  and 
“  a  thund’rin*  rascal  with  all.” 

A  strange  scene  came  next.  The  last  of  the  congrega¬ 
tion  had  not  yet  reached  the  porch,  when  all  at  once  there 
was  an  uneasy  move  among  them  like  the  ground-swell 
among  the  shoalings  before  the  storm  comes  to  shore. 
Those  who  were  in  front  fell  back  or  turned  about  and 
nodded  as  if  they  wished  to  say  something;  and  those  who 
were  behind  seemed  to  think  and  wonder.  Then,  sudden 
as  the  sharp  crack  of  the  first  breaker  on  a  reef,  the  faces 
of  the  people  fell  to  a  great  heaviness  of  horror,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  mournful  exclamations,  surprise,  and  terror. 
“  Lord  ha’  massy  !  ” 

“  Dead,  you  say  ?  ” 

“Aw,  dead  enough.” 

“  Washed  ashore  by  the  Mooragh  ?  ” 

“  So  they’re  sayin’,  so  they’re  sayin’.” 

“  Hiain  Jean  myghin  orrin — Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !  ” 
Half  a  minute  later  the  whole  congregation  were  gathered 
outside  the  west  porch.  There,  in  the  recess  between  the 
chapel  and  the  house,  two  men,  fisher-fellows  of  Michael, 
stood  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  people.  Something  lay 
at  their  feet,  and  the  crowd  made  a  circle  about  it,  looked 
down  at  it,  and  drew  long  breaths.  And  when  one  after 
another  came  up,  reached  over  the  heads  of  others,  and 
saw  what  lay  within,  he  turned  away  with  uplifted  hands 
and  a  face  that  was  white  with  fear. 

“  Lord  ha’  massy !  Lord  ha’  massy !  ”  cried  the  people 
on  every  side,  and  their  senses  were  confused  and  over¬ 
powered. 

What  the  dread  thing  was  that  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  two 
fishermen  does  not  need  to  be  said. 

“At  the  Mooragh,  d’ye  say — came  ashore  at  the  Moor* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


M  L  ;/ .\lh9l 

u I  saw  it  an  hour  before  it  drifted  in,”  said  one  of  the 
two  grave  fellows.  “  I  was  down  ’longshore  shrimping, 
and  it  was  a  good  piece  out  to  sea,  and  a*  heavy  tide  run¬ 
ning.  ‘  Lord  ha’  massy,  what’s  that  ?  ’  I  says.  ‘  It’s  a  gig 
with  a  sail/  I  was  thinking,  but  no,  it  was  looking  too 
small.  It’s  a  diver,  or  maybe  a  solan  goose  with  its  wings 
stretched  out  ;  but  no,  it  was  looking  too  big.” 

“  Bless  me  !  Lord  bless  me  !  ” 

“And  when  it  came  a  piece  nearer  it  was  into  the  sea  I 
was  going,  breast-high  and  more,  and  I  came  anigh  it,  and 
saw  what  it  was — and  frightened  mortal,  you  go  bail — and 
away  to  the  street  for  Jemmy  here,  and  back  middlin’ 
sharp,  and  it  driftin’  and  driftin’  on  the  beach  by  that  time, 
and  the  water  flopping  on  it,  and  the  two  of  us  up  with  it 
on  to  our  shoulders,  and  straight  away  for  the  Coort.” 

And  sure  enough  the  fisherman’s  clothes  were  drenched 
above  his  middle,  and  the  shoulders  of  both  men  were 
wet. 

“Bless  me!  bless  me!  Lord  ha’  massy !”  echoed  one, 
and  then  another,  and  once  again  they  craned  their  necks 
forward  and  looked  down. 

The  loose  canvas  that  had  been  ripped  open  by  the 
weights  was  lying  where  the  seams  were  stretched,  and 
none  uncovered  the  face,  for  the  sense  of  human  death  was 
strong  on  all.  But  word  had  gone  about  whose  body  it 
was,  and  blind  Kerry,  wringing  her  hands  and  muttering 
something  about  the  sights,  pushed  her  away  to  the  side 
of  the  two  men,  and  asked  why  they  had  brought  their 
burden  to  Bishop’s  Court  instead  of  taking  it  to  Balla- 
mona. 

“Aw,  well,”  they  answered,  “we  were  thinking  the 
Bishop  was  his  true  father,  and  Bishop’s  Coort  his  true 
home  for  all.” 

“And  that’s  true,  too,”  said  Kerry,  “for  his  own  father 
has  been  worse  than  a  haythen  naygro  to  him,  and  lave  it 
to  me  to  know,  for  didn’t  I  bring  the  millish  into  the 
world?” 

Then  there  came  a  rush  of  people  down  the  road  from 
the  village.  A  rumor  that  something  horrible  had  washed 
ashore  had  passed  quickly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  after  the 
fisherman  had  run  up  to  the  village  for  help.  And  now, 
in  low,  eager  tones,  questions  and  answers  came  and  went 
among  the  crowd.  “Who  is  it  ? ”  “Is  it  the  captain  ?” 
“  What,  Mastha  Dan  ? ”  “That’s  what  they’re  saying  up 
the  street  anyway.”  “Wrapped  in  a  hammock — good 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


X  98 

Lord  preserve  us!”  “Came  up  in  the  tideway  at  the 
Mooragh — gracious  me  !  and  I  saw  myself  011’y  yesterday.” 

The  Bishop  was  seen  to  come  out  of  the  vestry  door,  and 
at  the  sight  of  him  the  crowd  seemed  to  awake  out  of  its 
first  stupor.  “  God  help  the  Bishop  !  ”  “  Here  he’s  com¬ 

ing.”  “Bless  me,  he’ll  have  to  pass  it  by,  going  into  the 
house.”  “The  shock  will  kill  the  ould  man.”  “Poor 
thing,  poor  thing!”  “Someone  must  up  and  break  the 
bad  newses  to  him.”  “Aw,  yes,  for  sure.” 

And  then  came  the  question  of  who  was  to  tell  the 
Bishop.  First  the  people  asked  one  Corlett  Ballafayle. 
Corlett  farmed  a  hundred  acres,  and  was  a  church-warden, 
and  a  member  of  the  Keys.  But  the  big  man  said  no,  and 
edged  away.  Then  they  asked  one  of  the  Tubmans,  but 
the  brewer  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  look  into  the 
Bishop’s  face  and  tell  him  a  tale  like  that.  At  length  they 
thought  of  blind  Kerry.  She  at  least  would  not  see  the 
face  of  the  stricken  man  when  she  took  him  the  fearful 
news. 

“  Aw,  yes,  Kerry,  woman,  it’s  yourself  for  it,  and  a  rael 
stout  heart  at  you,  and  blind  for  all,  thank  the  Lord.” 

“  I’ll  try,  please  God,”  said  Kerry,  and  with  that  she 
moved  slowly  toward  the  vestry  door,  where  the  Bishop 
had  stopped  to  stroke  the  yellow  curls  of  a  little  shy  boy,  and 
to  ask  him  his  age  next  birthday,  and  to  wish  him  a  merry 
Christmas  and  eighty  more  of  them,  and  all  merry  ones. 
It  was  observed  that  the  good  man’s  face  was  brighter  now 
than  it  had  been  when  he  went  into  the  chapel. 

The  people  watched  Kerry  as  she  moved  up  to  the 
Bishop.  Could  she  be  telling  him?  He  was  smiling! 
Was  it  not  his  laugh  that  they  heard  ?  Kerry  was  standing 
before  him  in  an  irresolute  way,  and  now  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  he  was  leaving  her.  He  was  coming  forward.  No, 
he  had  stopped  again  to  speak  to  old  Auntie  Nan  from  the 
Curragh,  and  Kerry  had  passed  him  in  returning  to  the 
crowd. 

“  I  couldn’t  do  it ;  he  spoke  so  cheerful,  poor  thing,” 
said  Kerry  ;  “and  when  I  wasgoin’  to  speak  he  looked  the 
spitten  picture  of  my  ould  father.” 

The  Bishop  parted  from  the  old  woman  of  the  Curragh, 
and  then  on  raising  his  eyes  he  became  conscious  of  the 
throng  by  the  porch. 

“  Lave  it  to  me,”  said  a  rough  voice,  and  Billy  the 
Gawk  stepped  out.  The  crowd  fell  aside,  and  the  fisher¬ 
men  placed  themselves  in  front  of  the  dread  thing  on  the- 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


19$ 


ground.  Smiling  and  bowing  on  the  right  and  left,  the 
Bishop  was  passing  on  toward  the  door  that  led  to  the 
house,  when  the  old  beggar  of  the  highways  hobbled  in 
front  of  him. 

“  We’re  right  sorry,  sir,  my  lord,  to  bring  ye  bad 
newses,”  the  old  man  stammered,  lifting  the  torn  cap  from 
his  head. 

The  Bishop’s  face  fell  to  a  sudden  gravity.  “What  is 
it?”  he  said,  and  his  voice  sunk. 

“  We’re  rael  sorry,  and  we  know  your  heart  was  gript 
to  him  with  grapplin’s.” 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  some  in  the  crowd. 

“What  is  it,  man  ?  Speak,”  said  the  Bishop,  and  all 
around  was  silence  and  awe. 

The  old  man  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment.  Then,  just 
as  he  was  lifting  his  head  to  speak,  and  every  eye  was  on 
the  two  who  stood  in  the  midst,  the  Bishop  and  the  old 
beggar,  there  came  a  loud  noise  from  near  at  hand,  and 
voices  that  sounded  hoarse  and  jarring  were  in  the  air. 

“  Where  is  it  ?  When  did  they  bring  it  up  ?  Why  is  it 
not  taken  into  the  house  ?” 

It  was  the  Deemster,  and  he  came  on  with  great  flash¬ 
ing  eyes,  and  behind  him  was  Jarvis  Kerruish.  s  In  an  in¬ 
stant  the  crowd  had  fallen  aside  for  him,  and  he  had 
pushed  through  and  come  to  a  stand  in  front  of  the 
Bishop. 

“We  know  what  has  happened.  We  have  heard  it  in 
the  village,”  he  said.  “I  knew  what  it  must  come  to 
sooner  or  later.  I  told  you  a  hundred  times,  and  you 
have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it.” 

The  Bishop  said  not  a  word.  He  saw  what  lay  behind 
the  feet  of  the  fishermen,  and  stepped  up  to  it. 

“  It’s  of  your  own  doing,”  shouted  the  Deemster  in  a 
voice  of  no  ruth  or  pity.  “  You  would  not  heed  my  warn¬ 
ing.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  devil’s  own  dues  were  in 
him.  He  hadn’t  an  ounce  of  grace  in  his  carcass.  He 
put  his  foot  on  your  neck,  and  threatened  to  do  as  much 
for  me  some  day.  And  see  where  he  is  now  !  Look  at 
him  !  This  is  how  your  son  comes  home  to  you  !  ” 

As  he  spoke,  the  Deemster  pointed  contemptuously 
with  the  handle  of  his  walking-cane  to  the  thing  that  lay 
between  them. 

Then  the  hard  tension  of  the  people's  silence  was 
broken  ;  they  began  to  mutter  among  themselves  and  to 
propose  and  demur  to  something.  They  saw  the  Deem* 


*00  I  /  the  deemster. 

ster’s  awful  error,  and  that  he  thought  the  dead  man  was 
Dan. 

The  Bishop  still  stood  immovable,  with  not  the  sign  of 
a  tear  on  his  white  face,  but  over  it  the  skin  was  drawn  ; 
hard. 

“  And  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more,,,  said  the  Deem¬ 
ster.  “Whoever  he  may  be  that  brought  matters  to  this 
pass,  he  shall  not  suffer.  I  will  not  lift  a  finger  against 
him.  The  man  who  brings  about  his  own  death  shall  have 
the  burden  of  it  on  his  own  head.  The  law  will  uphold 
Ine.,, 

Then  a  hoarse  murmur  ran  from  lip  to  lip  among  the 
people  who  stood  around,  and  one  man,  a  burly  fellow, 
nerved  by  the  Deemster’s  error,  pushed  forward  and  said 

“  Deemster,  be  merciful,  as  you  hope  for  mercy  ;  you 
don’t  know  what  you’re  saying.” 

At  that  the  Deemster  turned  about  hotly  and  brought 
down  his  walking-cane  with  a  heavy  blow  on  the  man's 
breast. 

The  stalwart  fellow  took  the  blow  without  lifting  a  hand 
4(  God  help  you  !  Deemster,”  he  said,  in  a  thick  voice 
“  God  help  you  !  you  don’t  know  what  you’re  doing.  Gc 
and  look  at  it,  Deemster.  Go  and  look,  if  you’ve  the  hear 
for  it.  Look  at  it,  man,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  oi 
you,  and  on  us  all  in  our  day  of  trouble,  and  may  Gocj 
forgive  you  the  cruel  words  you’ve  spoken  to  your  owi 
brother  this  day  !  ”  I 

There  was  then  a  great  silence  for  a  moment.  Th< 
Deemster  gazed  in  a  sort  of  stupor  into  the  man’s  face 
and  his  stick  dropped  out  of  his  hand.  With  a  look  o 
majesty  and  of  suffering  the  Bishop  stood  at  one  side  o 
the  body,  quietr  silent,  giving  no  sign,  seeing  nothing  bu 
the  thing  at  his  feet,  and  hardly  hearing  the  re  proache 
that  were  being  hurled  at  him  in  the  face  of  his  people 
The  beating  of  his  heart  fell  low.  #  1 

There  was  a  moment  of  suspense,  and  then,  breathini 
rapid,  audible  breath,  the  Deemster  stooped  beside  th 
body,  stretched  out  a  half-palsied  hand,  and  drew  aside  th 
loose  canvas,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  own  son  Ewan. 

One  long  exclamation  of  surprise  and  consternatio 
broke  from  the  Deemster,  and  after  that  there  came  art 
other  fearful  pause,  wherein  the  Bishop  went  down  on  hi 
knees  beside  the  body. 

In  an  instant  the  Deemster  fell  back  to  his  savage  mooci 
He  rose  to  his  full  height ;  his  face  became  suddenly  an 


TTTE  DEEMSTER. 


201 


awfully  discolored  and  stern,  and,  tottering  almost  to  fall¬ 
ing,  he  lifted  his  clenched  fist  to  the  sky  in  silent  impreca¬ 
tion  of  heaven. 

The  people  dropped  aside  in  horror,  and  their  flesh 
crawled  over  them.  “  Lord  ha’  massy  !  ”  they  cried  again, 
and  Kerry,  who  was  blind  and  could  not  see  the  Deemster, 
covered  her  ears  that  she  might  not  hear  him. 

And  from  where  he  knelt  the  Bishop,  who  had  not 
spoken  until  now,  said,  with  an  awful  emphasis,  “  Brother, 
the  Lord  of  heaven  looks  down  on  us.” 

But  the  Deemster,  recovering  himself,  laughed  in  scorn 
of  his  own  weakness  no  less  than  of  the  Bishop’s  reproof. 
He  picked  up  the  walking-cane  that  he  had  dropped, 
slapped  his  leg  with  it,  ordered  the  two  fishermen  to  shoul¬ 
der  their  burden  again  and  take  it  to  Ballamona,  and  sent 
straightway  for  the  coroner  and  the  joiner,  “  For,”  said 
he,  “  my  son  having  come  out  of  the  sea,  must  be  buried 
this  same  day,” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  THE  BISHOP. 

The  Deemster  swung  aside  and  went  off,  followed  by 
Jarvis  Kerruish.  Then  the  two  fishermen  took  up  their 
dread  burden  and  set  their  faces  toward  Ballamona.  In  a 
blind  agony  of  uncertainty  the  Bishop  went  into  his  house. 
His  mind  was  confused ;  he  sat  and  did  his  best  to  com¬ 
pose  himself.  The  thing  that  had  happened  perplexed 
him  cruelly.  He  tried  to  think  it  out,  but  found  it  im¬ 
possible  to  analyze  his  unlinked  ideas.  His  faculties  were 
benumbed,  and  not  even  pain,  the  pain  of  Ewan’s  loss, 
could  yet  penetrate  the  dead  blank  that  lay  between  him 
and  a  full  consciousness  of  the  awful  event.  He  shed  no 
tears,  and  not  a  sigh  broke  from  him.  Silent  he  sat,  with 
an  expression  of  suffering  that  might  have  been  frozen  in 
his  stony  eyes  and  on  his  whitening  lips,  so  rigid  was  it, 
and  as  if  the  power  of  life  had  ebbed  away  like  the  last 
ebb  of  an  exhausted  tide. 

Then  the  people  from  without  began  to  crowd  in  upon 
him  where  he  sat  in  his  library.  They  were  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement,  and  all  reserve  and  ceremony  were 
broken  down.  Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  each  his  conject¬ 
ure  to  offer.  One  told  what  the  long-shore  shrimper  had 


202 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


said  of  finding  the  body  near  the  fishing-ground  known  as 
the  Mooragh.  Another  had  his  opinion  as  to  how  the 
body  had  sailed  ashore  instead  of  sinking.  A  third  fum¬ 
bled  his  cap,  and  said,  “I  take  sorrow  to  see  you  in  such 
trouble,  my  lord,  and  wouldn’t  bring  bad  newses  if  I  could 
give  myself  lave  to  bring  good  newses  instead,  but  I’ll  go 
bail  there’s  been  bad  work  goin’,  and  foul  play,  as  they’re 
sayin’,  and  I  wouldn’t  trust  but  Mastha  Dan — I’m  saying  I 
wouldn’t  trust  but  Mastha  Dan  could  tell  us  something — ” 

The  Bishop  cut  short  the  man’s  garrulity  with  a  slight 
gesture,  and  one  by  one  the  people  went  out.  He  had  lis¬ 
tened  to  them  in  silence  and  with  a  face  of  saintly  suffer¬ 
ing,  scarcely  hearing  what  they  had  said.  “  I  will  await 
events,”  he  thought,  “  and  trust  in  God.”  But  a  great  fear 
was  laying  hold  of  him,  and  he  had  to  gird  up  his  heart 
to  conquer  it.  “  I  will  trust  in  God,”  he  told  himself  a  score 
of  times,  and  in  his  faith  in  the  goodness  of  his  God  he 
tried  to  be  calm  and  brave.  But  one  after  another  his  peo¬ 
ple  came  back  and  back  and  back  with  new  and  still  newer 
facts.  At  every  fresh  blow  from  damning  circumstances 
his  thin  lips  trembled,  his  nervous  fingers  ran  through  his 
flowing  white  hair,  and  his  deep  eyes  filled  without  mov¬ 
ing. 

And  after  the  first  tempest  of  his  own  sorrow  for  the 
loss  of  Ewan,  he  thought  of  Dan,  and  of  Dan’s  sure  grief. 
He  remembered  the  love  of  Ewan  for  Dan,  and  the  love 
of  Dan  for  Ewan.  He  recalled  many  instances  of  that 
beautiful  affection,  and  in  the  quickening  flow  of  the 
light  of  that  love  half  the  follies  of  his  wayward  son  sanfc 
out  of  sight.  Dan  must  be  told  what  had  occurred,  and 
if  none  had  told  him  already,  it  was  best  that  it  should  be 
broken  to  him  from  lips  that  loved  him. 

Thus  it  was  that  this  brave  and  long-harassed  man,  try¬ 
ing  to  think  ill  of  his  own  harshness,  that  looked  so  im¬ 
potent  and  so  childish  now,  remembering  no  longer  his 
vow  never  to  set  eyes  on  the  face  of  his  son,  or  hold 
speech  with  him  again,  sent  a  messenger  to  the  old  Balia- 
mona  to  ask  for  Dan,  and  to  bring  him  to  Bishop’s  Court 
without  delay. 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  the  sound  of  a  knock  at  his  door, 
the  Bishop,  thinking  it  was  Dan  himself,  stood  up  to  his 
stately  height,  and  tried  to  hide  his  agitation,  and  answered 
in  an  unsteady  voice,  that  not  all  the  resolution  of  his 
brave  heart  could  subdue  to  calmness.  But  it  was  the 
messenger,  and  not  Dan,  and  he  had  returned  to  say  thac 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


90% 


Mastha  Dan  had  not  been  home  since  yesterday,  and  that 
when  Mastha  Ewan  was  last  seen  at  home,  he  had  asked 
for  Mastha  Dan,  and,  not  finding  him,  had  gone  down  to 
the  Lockjaw  Creek  to  seek  him. 

“  When  was  that  ?  ”  the  Bishop  asked. 

“  The  ould  body  at  the  house  said  it  might  be  a  piece 
after  three  o’clock  yesterday  evening,”  said  the  man. 

Beneath  the  cold  quietness  of  the  regard  with  which 
the  Bishop  dismissed  his  messenger,  a  keener  eye  than  his 
might  have  noted  a  fearful  tumult.  The  Bishop’s  hand 
grew  cold  and  trembled.  At  the  next  instant  he  had  be¬ 
come  conscious  of  his  agitation,  and  had  begun  to  re¬ 
proach  himself  for  his  want  of  faith.  “  I  will  trust  in  God! 
and  await  events,”  he  told  himself  again.  “  No,  I  will  not 
speak  ;  I  will  maintain  silence.  Yes,  I  will  await  the  turn 
of  events,  and  trust  in  the  good  Father  of  all.” 

Then  there  came  another  knock  at  his  door.  “  Surely 
it  is  Dan  at  length  ;  his  old  housekeeper  has  sent  him  on,” 
he  thought.  “  Come  in,”  he  called,  in  a  voice  that  shook. 

It  was  Hommy-beg.  The  Deemster  had  sent  him  across 
with  a  message. 

“And  what  is  it?”  the  Bishop  asked,  speaking  at  the 
deaf  man’s  ear. 

Hommy-beg  scratched  his  tousled  head  and  made  no  an¬ 
swer  at  first,  and  the  Bishop  repeated  the  question. 

“  We’re  all  taking  sorrow  for  you,  my  lord,”  said  Hommy, 
and  then  he  stopped. 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  the  Bishop  repeated. 

And  right  sorry  I  am  to  bring  his  message.” 

The  Bishop’s  pale  face  took  an  ashy  gray,  but  his  man¬ 
ner  was  still  calm. 

“What  did  the  Deemster  send  you  to  say,  Hommy  ?” 

“The  Dempster — bad  sess  to  him,  and  no  disrespec’ — 
he  sent  me  to  tell  you  that  they’re  after  stripping  the  can¬ 
vas  off,  and,  behould  ye,  it’s  an  ould  sail,  and  they’re  know¬ 
ing  it  by  its  number,  and  what  fishing-boat  it  came  out  of, 
and  all  to  that.” 

“Where  did  the  sailcloth  come  from  ?  ”  asked  the  Bish¬ 
op,  and  his  deep  eyes  were  fixed  on  Hommy. 

“It’s  an  ould — well,  the  fact  is — to  tell  you  not  a  word 
of  a  lie — aw,  my  lord,  what  matter — what  if  it  is - ” 

“  Where  ?  ”  said  the  Bishop  calmly,  though  his  lips 
whitened  and  quivered. 

“  It’s  an  old  drift  yawlsail  of  the  Ben-my-Chree.  Aw, 
yes,  yes,  sarten  sure,  and  sorry  I  am  to  bring  bad  newses/ 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CO* 

Hommy-beg  went  out,  and  the  Bishop  stood  for  some 
minutes  in  the  thrall  of  fear.  He  had  been  smitten  hard 
by  other  facts,  but  this  latest  fact  seemed  for  the  moment 
to  overthrow  his  great  calm  faith  in  God’s  power  to  bring 
out  all  things  for  the  best.  He  wrestled  with  it  long  and 
hard.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  it  meant  nothing. 
That  Ewan  was  dead  was  certain.  That  he  came  by  his 
death  through  foul  play  seemed  no  less  sure  and  terrible. 
But  that  his  body  had  been  wrapped  in  sailcloth  once  be¬ 
longing  to  Dan’s  fishing-boat  was  no  sufficient  ground  for 
the  terrible  accusation  that  was  taking  shape  in  other 
minds.  Could  he  accept  the  idea  ?  Ah,  no,  no,  no.  To 
do  so  would  be  to  fly  in  the  face  of  all  sound  reason,  all 
fatherly  love,  and  all  trust  in  the  good  Father  above. 
Though  the  sailcloth  came  from  the  Ben-my-Chree,  the 
fact  said  nothing  of  where  the  body  came  from.  And  even 
though  it  were  certain  that  the  body  must  have  been  dropped 
into  the  sea  from  the  fishing-boat  that  belonged  to  Dan,  it 
would  still  require  proof  that  Dan  himself  was  aboard  of 
her. 

With  such  poor  shifts  the  Bishop  bore  down  the  cruel 
facts  as  one  after  one  they  beat  upon  his  brain.  He  tried 
to  feel  shame  of  his  own  shame,  and  to  think  hard  of  his 
own  hard  thoughts.  “  Yes,  I  will  trust  in  God,”  he  told 
himself  afresh,  “  I  will  await  events,  and  trust  in  the  good 
Father  of  all  mercies.”  But  where  was  Dan  ?  The  Bishop 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  send  messengers  to  skirr  the 
island  round  in  search  of  his  son,  when  suddenly  there 
came  a  great  noise  as  of  many  persons  talking  eagerly,  and 
drawing  hurriedly  near  and  nearer. 

A  minute  afterward  his  library  door  was  opened  again 
without  reserve  or  ceremony,  and  there  came  trooping  into 
the  room  a  mixed  throng  of  the  village  folk.  Little  Jabez 
Gawne  was  at  their  head  with  a  coat  and  a  hat  held  in  his 
hands  before  him. 

Cold  as  the  day  was  the  people  looked  hot  and  full  ct 
puzzled  eagerness,  and  their  smoking  breath  came  in  long 
jets  into  the  quiet  room. 

“  My  lord,  look  what  we’ve  found  on  the  top  of  Orris- 
del,”  said  Jabez,  and  he  stretched  out  the  coat,  while  one 
of  the  men  behind  him  relieved  him  of  the  beaver. 

The  coat  was  a  long  black-cloth  coat,  with  lappets  and 
tails  and  wristbands  turned  over. 

The  Bishop  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  the  coat  of  a 
clergyman.  j: 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


20$ 


“Leave  it  to  me  to  know  this  coat,  my  lord,  for  it  was 
myself  that  made  it,  said  Jabez. 

The  Bishop’s  brain  turned  giddy,  and  the  perspiration 
started  from  his  temples,  but  his  dignity  and  his  largeness 

did  not  desert  him.  , 

«  js  it  my  poor  Ewan’s  coat  ?  he  asked,  as  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  take  it  ;  but  his  tone  was  one  of  almost  hope¬ 
less  misery  and  not  of  inquiry. 

“  That’s  true,  my  lord,”  said  Jabez,  and  thereupon  the 
little  tailor  started  an  elaborate  series  of  identifications, 
based  chiefly  on  points  of  superior  cut  and  workmanship. 
But  the  Bishop  cut  the  tailor  short  with  a  wave  of  the 

“You  found  it  on  Orrisdale  Head  ?  ”  asked  the  Bishop. 
And  one  of  the  men  behind  pushed  his  head  be- 
tween  the  shoulders  of  those  who  were  before  him,  and 


£11“  Aw,  yes,  my  lord,  not  twenty  yards  from  the  cliff,  and 
l  found  something  else  beside  of  it.” 

Just  then  there  was  a  further  noise  in  the  passage  out¬ 
side  the  library,  and  a  voice  saying  :  ... 

«  Gerr  out  of  the  way,  you  old  loblollyboys,  bringing 
bad  newses  still,  and  glad  of  them,  too. 

It  was  Hommy-beg  returned  to  Bishop  s  Court  with  yet 
another  message,  but  it  was  a  message  of  his  own  and  not 
of  the  Deemster’s.  He  pushed  his  way  through  the  throng 
until  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  Bishop,  and  then  he 

said :  ,  - 

“The  Dempster  is  afther  having  the  doctor  down  from 
Ramsay,  and  the  big  man  is  sayin’  the  neck  was  broken, 
and  it  was  a  fall  that  killed  the  young  pazon,  and  nothing 

worse,  at  all  at  all.”  ... 

The  large  sad  eyes  of  the  Bishop  seemed  to  shine  with¬ 
out  moving  as  Hommy  spoke,  but  in  an  instant  the  man 
who  had  spoken  before  thrust  his  word  in  again,  and 
then  the  Bishop’s  face  grew  darker  than  ever  with  settled 

gloom.  _  .  ^  ,  ,  . 

ts  It  was  myself  that  found  the  coat  and  hat,  my  or  , 
and  a  piece  nearer  the  cliff  I  found  this,  and  this  ;  and 
then,  down  the  brew  itself — maybe  a  matter  of  ten  teet 
down— I  saw  this  other  one  sticking  in  a  green  corry  of 
grass  and  ling,  and  over  I  went,  hand-under-hand,  and 

brought  it  up.”  t  A 

While  he  spoke  the  man  struggled  to  the  front,  ana 
held  out  in  one  hand  a  belt,  or  what  seemed  to  be  two 


2o6 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


belts  buckled  together  and  cut  across  as  with  a  knife,  and 
in  the  other  hand  two  daggers. 

A  great  awe  fell  upon  everyone  at  sight  of  the  weapons. 
The  Bishop’s  face  still  showed  a  quiet  grandeur,  but  his 
breathing  was  labored  and  harassed. 

“  Give  them  to  me,”  he  said,  with  an  impressive  calm¬ 
ness,  and  the  man  put  the  belts  and  daggers  into  the 
Bishop’s  hands.  He  looked  at  them  attentively,  and  saw 
that  one  of  the  buckles  was  of  silver,  while  the  other  was 
of  steel. 

“  Has  any  one  recognized  them  ?  ”  he  asked. 

A  dozen  voices  answered  at  once  that  they  were  the 
belts  of  the  newly-banded  militia. 

At  the  same  instant  the  Bishop’s  eye  was  arrested  by 
some  scratches  on  the  back  of  the  silver  buckle.  He  fixed 
his  spectacles  to  examine  the  marks  more  closely.  When 
he  had  done  so  he  breathed  with  gasps  of  agony,  and  all 
the  cheer  of  life  seemed  in  one  instant  to  die  out  of  his 
face.  His  nerveless  fingers  dropped  the  belts  and  dag-' 
gers  on  to  the  table,  and  the  silver  and  the  steel  clinked  as 
they  fell. 

There  had  been  a  dead  silence  in  the  room  for  some 
moments,  and  then,  with  a  labored  tranquillity,  the  Bishop 
said,  “That  will  do;”  and  stood  mute  and  motionless 
while  the  people  shambled  out,  leaving  their  dread  treas¬ 
ures  behind  them. 

To  his  heart’s  core  the  Bishop  was  struck  with  an  icy 
chill.  He  tried  to  link  together  the  terrible  ideas  that  had 
smitten  his  brain,  but  his  mind  wandered  and  slipped 
away.  Ewan  was  last  seen  going  toward  the  creek  ;  he 
was  dead  ;  he  had  been  killed  by  a  fall ;  his  body  had 
come  ashore  in  an  old  sail  of  the  Ben-my-Chree  ;  his 
coat  and  hat  had  been  picked  up  on  the  top  of  Orrisdale 
Head,  and  beside  them  lay  two  weapons  and  two  belts, 
whereof  one  had  belonged  to  Dan,  whose  name  was 
scratched  upon  it. 

In  the  crushing  coil  of  circumstance  that  was  every  mo¬ 
ment  tightening  about  him  the  Bishop’s  great  calm  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  his  Maker  seepied  to  be  benumbed. 
“  Oh,  my  son,  my  son  !  ”  he  cried,  when  he  was  left  alone. 
u  Would  to  God  I  had  died  before  I  saw  this  day!  Oh, 
my  son,  my  son  !  ”  But  after  a  time  he  regained  his  self- 
control,  and  said  to  himself  again,  “  I  will  trust  in  God ; 
He  will  make  the  dark  places  plain.”  Then  he  broke 
into  short,  fitful  prayers,  as  if  to  drive  away,  by  the  warmth 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


20 7 


of  the  spirit,  the  chill  that  was  waiting  in  readiness  to 
freeze  his  faith— “  Make  haste  unto  me,  O  God  !  Hide 
not  Thy  face  from  Thy  servant,  for  I  am  in  trouble.” 

The  short  winter’s  day  had  dragged  on  heavily,  but  the 
arms  of  darkness  were  now  closing  round  it.  The  Bishop 
put  on  his -cloak  and  hat  and  set  off  for  Ballamona.  In 
length  of  days  he  was  but  little  past  his  prime,  but  the 
dark  sorrow  of  many  years  had  drained  his  best  strength, 
and  he  tottered  on  the  way.  Only  his  strong  faith  that 
God  would  remember  His  servant  in  the  hour  of  trouble 
gave  power  to  his  trembling  limbs. 

And  as  he  walked  he  began  to  reproach  himself  for  the 
mistrust  whereby  he  had  been  so  sorely  shaken.  This 
comforted  him  somewhat,  and  he  stepped  out  more  boldly. 
He  was  telling  himself  that,  perplexing  though  the  facts 
might  be,  they  were  yet  so  inconclusive  as  to  prove  nothing 
except  that  Ewan  was  dead,  when  all  at  once  he  became 
conscious  that  in  the  road  ahead  of  him,  grouped  about 
the  gate  of  Ballamona,  were  a  company  of  women  and 
children,  all  agitated  and  some  weeping,  with  the  coroner 
in  their  midst,  questioning  them. 

The  coroner  was  Quayle  the  Gyke,  the  same  who  would 
have  been  left  penniless  by  his  father  but  for  the  Bishop’s 
intervention. 

“And  when  did  your  husband  go  out  to  sea  ?  ”  the  cor¬ 
oner  asked. 

“At  floodtide  yesterday,”  answered  one  of  the  women  ; 
“and  my  man,  he  said  to  me,  ‘Liza,’  he  said,  ‘get  me  a 
bite  of  priddhas  and  salt  herrin’s  for  supper,'  he  said  ; 
‘we’ll  be  back  for  twelve,'  he  said;  but  never  a  sight  of 
him  yet,  and  me  up  all  night  till  daylight.” 

“  But  they’ve  been  in  and  gone  out  to  sea  again,”  said 
another  of  the  women. 

“  How  d’ye  know  that,  Mother  Quilleash?”  asked  the 
coroner. 

“  Because  I’ve  been  taking  aslieu  round  to  the  creek, 
and  there’s  a  basket  of  ray  and  cod  in  the  shed,”  the  woman 
answered. 

At  that  the  Bishop  drew  up  at  the  gate,  and  the  cor¬ 
oner  explained  to  him  the  trouble  of  the  women  and  chil¬ 
dren. 

“  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Corkell  ? "  the  Bishop  asked  of  a  woman 
near  him. 

“Aw,  yes,  my  lord.” 

“  And  you,  too,  Mrs.  Tear©  ? ” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


208 

The  woman  curtsied ;  the  Bishop  named  them  one  by 
one,  and  stroked  the  bare  head  of  the  little  girl  who  was 
clinging  to  her  mother’s  cloak  and  weeping. 

'‘Then  it’s  the  Ben-my-Chree  that  has  been  missing 
since  yesterday  at  high-water?”  the  Bishop  said,  in  a  sort 
of  hushed  whisper. 

“Yes,  sure,  my  lord.” 

At  that  the  Bishop  turned  suddenly  aside,  without  a  word 
more,  opened  the  gate,  and  walked  up  the  path.  “  Oh,  my 
son,  my  son,”  he  cried,  in  his  bleeding  heart,  “  how  have 
you  shortened  my  days!  How  have  you  clothed  me  with 
shame  !  Oh,  my  son,  my  son!” 

Before  Ballamona  an  open  cart  was  standing,  with  the 
tail-board  down,  and  the  horse  was*  pawing  the  gravel 
which  had  once — on  a  far  different  occasion — been  strewn 
with  the  “  blithe-bread.”  The  door  of  the  house  stood 
ajar,  and  a  jet  of  light  from  within  fell  on  the  restless  horse 
without.  The  Bishop  entered  the  house,  and  found  all  in 
readiness  for  the  hurried  night  burial.  On  chairs  that  were 
ranged  back  to  back  a  rough  oak  coffin,  like  an  oblong 
box,  was  resting,  and  from  the  rafter  of  the  ceiling  imme¬ 
diately  over  it  a  small  oil-lamp  was  suspended.  On  either 
side  of  the  hall  were  three  or  four  men  holding  brands 
and  leathern  lanterns,  ready  for  lighting.  The  Deemster 
was  coming  and  going  from  his  own  room  beyond,  attend¬ 
ed  in  bustling  eagerness  by  Jarvis  Kerruish.  Near  the 
coffin  stood  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  father  of  the  dead 
man’s  dead  wife,  and  in  the  opening  of  a  door  that  went 
out  from  the  hall  Mona  stood  weeping,  with  the  dead  man’s 
child  in  her  arms. 

And  even  as  it  is  only  in  the  night  that  the  brightest 
stars  may  truly  be  seen,  so  in  the  night  of  all  this  calam¬ 
ity  the  star  of  the  Bishop’s  faith  shone  out  clearly  again, 
and  his  vague  misgivings  fell  away.  He  stepped  up  to 
Mona,  whose  dim  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  his  face  in  sad¬ 
ness  of  sympathy,  and  with  his  dry  lips  he  touched  her 
forehead. 

Then,  in  the  depth  of  his  own  sorrow  and  the  breadth  of 
shadow  that  lay  upon  him,  he  looked  down  at  the  little 
one  in  Mona’s  arms,  where  it  leapt  and  cooed  and  beat  its 
arms  on  the  air  in  a  strange  wild  joy  at  this  gay  spectacle 
of  its  father’s  funeral,  and  his  eyes  filled  for  what  the 
course  of  its  life  would  be- 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  Deemster  was  conscious  of  the 
Bishop’s  presence  in  the  house,  he  called  on  the  mourners 


The  deemster. 


to  make  ready,  and  then  six  men  stepped  to  the  side  of  the 
coffin. 

“  Thorkell,”  said  the  Bishop,  calmly,  and  the  bearers 
paused  while  he  spoke,  “  this  haste  to  put  away  the  body 
of  our  dear  Ewan  is  unseemly,  because  it  is  unnecessary.” 

The  Deemster  made  no  other  answer  than  a  spluttered 
expression  of  contempt,  and  the  Bishop  spoke  again. 

“  You  are  aware  that  there  is  no  canon  of  the  Church  re¬ 
quiring  it,  and  no  law  of  State  demanding  it.  That  a  body 
from  the  sea  shall  be  buried  within  the  day  it  has  washed 
ashore  is  no  more  than  a  custom.” 

“Then  custom  shall  be  indulged  with  custom,”  said 
Thorkell,  decisively. 

“  Not  for  fifty  years  has  it  been  observed,”  continued 
the  Bishop  ;  “  and  here  is  an  outrage  on  reason  and,  on 
the  respect  we  owe  to  our  dead.” 

At  this  the  Deemster  said :  “  The  body  is  mine,  and  I 
will  do  as  I  please  with  it.” 

Even  the  six  carriers,  with  their  hands  on  the  coffin, 
caught  their  breath  at  these  words  ;  but  the  Bishop  an¬ 
swered  without  anger:  “And  the  graveyard  is  mine,  in 
charge  for  the  Church  and  God’s  people,  and  if  I  do  not 
forbid  the  burial,  it  is  because  I  would  have  no  wrangling 
over  the  grave  of  my  dear  boy.” 

The  Deemster  spat  on  the  floor,  and  called  on  the  car¬ 
riers  to  take  up  their  burden.  Then  the  six  men  lifted 
the  coffin  from  the  chairs,  and  put  it  into  the  cart  at  the 
door.  The  other  mourners  went  out  on  to  the  gravel,  and 
such  of  them  as  carried  torches  and  lanterns  lighted  them 
there.  The  Old  Hundredth  was  then  sung,  and  when  its 
last  notes  had  died  on  the  night  air  the  springless  cart 
went  jolting  down  the  path.  Behind  it  the  mourners 
ranged  themselves  two  abreast,  with  the  Deemster  walking 
alone  after  the  cart,  and  the  Bishop  last  of  all. 

Mona  stood  a  moment  at  the  open  door,  in  the  hall  that 
was  now  empty  and  desolate  and  silent,  save  for  the  bab¬ 
blings  of  the  child  in  her  arms.  She  saw  the  procession 
pass  through  the  gate  into  the  road.  After  that  she  went 
into  the  house,  drew  aside  the  curtain  of  her  window,  and 
watched  the  moving  lights  until  they  stopped,  and  then 
she  knew  that  they  were  gathered  about  an  open  grave, 
and  that  half  of  all  that  had  been  very  dear  to  her  in  this 
weary  world  was  gone  from  it  for  ever. 

14 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THE  CHILD  GHOST  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

After  the  coroner,  Quayle  the  Gyke,  had  gone  through 
one  part  of  his  dual  functions  at  Ballamona,  and  thereby 
discovered  that  the  body  of  Ewan  had  been  wrapped  in  a 
sailcloth  of  the  Ben-my-Chree,  he  set  out  on  the  other 
part  of  his  duty,  to  find  the  berth  of  the  fishing-boat,  and, 
if  need  be,  to  arrest  the  crew.  He  was  in  the  act  of  leav¬ 
ing  Ballamona  when,  at  the  gate  of  the  high  road,  he  came 
upon  the  women  and  children  of  the  families  of  the  crew 
he  was  in  search  of,  and  there,  at  the  moment  when  the 
Bishop  arrived  for  the  funeral,  he  heard  that  the  men  had 
been  at  sea  since  the  middle  of  the  previous  day.  Con¬ 
firmed  in  his  suspicions,  but  concealing  them,  he  returned 
to  the  village  with  the  terrified  women,  and  on  the  way  he 
made  his  own  sinister  efforts  to  comfort  them  when  they 
mourned  as  if  their  husbands  had  been  lost.  “Aw,  no, 
no,  no,  never  fear  ;  we'll  see  them  again  soon  enough,  HI 
go  bail,”  he  said,  and  in  their  guileless  blindness  the  wom¬ 
en  were  nothing  loath  to  take  cheer  from  the  fellow's  du¬ 
bious  smile. 

His  confidence  was  not  misplaced,  for  hardly  had  he 
got  back  to  the  village,  and  stepped  into  the  houses  one 
after  one,  making  his  own  covert  investigations  while  he 
sandwiched  his  shrewd  questions  with  solace,  when  the 
fishermen  themselves,  old  Quilleash,  Crennell,  Teare,  and 
Corkell,  and  the  lad  Davy  Fayle,  came  tramping  up  the 
street.  Then  there  was  wild  joy  among  the  children,  who 
clung  to  the  men's  legs,  and  some  sharp  nagging  among 
the  women,  who  were  by  wifely  duty  bound  to  conceal 
their  satisfaction  under  a  proper  appearance  of  wrath. 
“And  what  for  had  they  been  away  all  night?”  and 
“  Didn't  they  take  shame  at  treating  a  woman  like  dirt  ?  ” 
and  “Just  like  a  man,  just,  not  caring  a  ha’p'orth,  and  a 
woman  up  all  night,  and  taking  notions  about  drowning, 
and  more  fool  for  it.” 

And  when  at  length  there  came  a  cessation  of  such 
questions,  and  the  fishermen  sat  down  with  an  awkward 
silence,  or  grunted  something  in  an  evasive  way  about 
“Women  preaching  mortal,”  and  “  Never  no  reason  in 
them,”  then  the  coroner  began  his  more  searching  inqui* 


THE  DEEMSTER , 


2IS 


ries.  When  did  they  run  in  with  the  cod  and  ling  that  was 
found  lying  in  the  tent?  Was  there  a  real  good  “strike  " 
on,  that  they  went  out  again  at  half-flood  last  night  ?  Do¬ 
ing  much  outside  ?  No  ?  He  wouldn’t  trust  but  they 
were  lying  off  the  Mooragh,  eh  ?  Yes,  you  say  ?  Coorse, 
coorse.  And  good  ground,  too.  And  where  was  the 
capt’n  ?  Out  with  them  ?  He  thought  so. 

Everything  the  coroner  asked  save  the  one  thing  on 
which  his  mind  was  set,  but  at  mention  of  the  Mooragh 
the  women  forgot  their  own  trouble  in  the  greater  trou¬ 
ble  that  was  over  the  parish,  and  blurted  out,  with  many 
an  expletive,  the  story  of  the  coming  to  shore  of  the  body 
of  Ewan.  And  hadn't  they  heard  the  jeel  ?  Aw,  shock¬ 
ing,  shocking  !  And  the  young  pazon  had  sailed  in  their 
boat,  so  he  had  !  Aw,  ter’ble,  ter’ble ! 

The  coroner  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  men’s  faces,  and 
marked  their  confusion  with  content.  They  on  their  part 
tried  all  their  powers  of  dissembling.  First  came  a  fine 
show  of  ferocity.  Where  were  their  priddhas  and  her¬ 
rings  ?  Bad  cess  to  the  women,  the  idle  shoulderin’  cray- 
thurs,  did  they  think  a  man  didn’t  want  never  a  taste  of 
nothin’  cornin’  in  off  the  say,  afther  workin’  for  them  day 
and  night  same  as  haythen  naygroes,  and  no  thanks  for 
it  ? 

It  would  not  do,  and  the  men  themselves  were  the  first 
to  be  conscious  that  they  could  not  strike  fire.  One  after 
another  slunk  out  of  his  house  until  they  were  all  five  on 
the  street  in  a  group,  holding  their  heads  together  and 
muttering.  And  when  at  length  the  coroner  came  out  of 
old  Quilleash’s  house,  and  leaned  against  the  trammon  at 
the  porch,  and  looked  toward  them  in  the  darkness,  but 
said  not  a  word,  their  self-possession  left  them  on  the  in¬ 
stant,  and  straightway  they  took  to  their  heels. 

“  Let’s  away  at  a  slant  over  the  Head  and  give  warning 
to  Mastha  Dan,”  they  whispered  ;  and  this  was  the  excuse 
they  made  to  themselves  for  their  flight,  just  to  preserve  a 
little  ray  of  self-respect. 

But  the  coroner  understood  them,  and  he  set  his  face 
back  toward  the  churchyard,  knowing  that  the  Deemster 
would  be  there  by  that  time. 

The  Bishop  had  gone  through  the  ceremony  at  the 
graveside  with  composure,  though  his  voice  when  he  spoke 
was  full  of  tears,  and  the  hair  of  his  uncovered  head  seemed 
to  have  passed  from  iron-gray  to  white.  His  grand,  calm 
face  was  steadfast,  and  his  prayer  was  of  faith  and  hope* 


212 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Only  beneath  this  white  quiet  as  of  a  glacier  the  red  not 
of  a  great  sorrow  was  rife  within  him. 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  in  its  fulness  that — undis¬ 
turbed  in  that  solemn  hour  by  coarser  fears — he  realized 
the  depth  of  his  grief  for  the  loss  of  Ewan.  That  saintly 
soul  came  back  to  his  memory  in  its  beauty  and  tender¬ 
ness  alone,  and  its  heat  and  uncontrollable  unreason  were 
forgotten.  When  he  touched  on  the  mystery  of  Ewan's 
death  his  large  wan  face  quivered  slightly  and  he  paused ; 
but  when  he  spoke  of  the  hope  of  an  everlasting  reunion, 
and  how  all  that  was  dark  would  be  made  plain  and  the 
Judge  of  all  the  earth  would  do  right,  his  voice  grew  bold 
as  with  a  surety  of  a  brave  resignation. 

The  Deemster  listened  to  the  short  night-service  with  al¬ 
ternate  restlessness — tramping  to  and  fro  by  the  side  of  the 
grave — and  cold  self-possession,  and  with  a  constant  hard¬ 
ness  and  bitterness  of  mind,  breaking  out  sometimes  into 
a  light  trill  of  laughter,  or  again  into  a  hoarse  gurgle,  as 
if  in  scorn  of  the  Bishop’s  misplaced  confidence.  But  the 
crowds  that  were  gathered  around  held  their  breath  in  awe 
of  the  mystery,  and  when  they  sang  it  was  with  such  an 
expression  of  emotion  and  fear  that  no  man  knew  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice. 

More  than  once  the  Deemster  stopped  in  his  uneasy  per¬ 
ambulations,  and  cried  “  What’s  that  ?  ”  as  if  arrested  by 
sounds  that  did  not  break  on  the  ears  of  others.  But 
nothing  occurred  to  disturb  the  ceremony  until  it  had 
reached  the  point  of  its  close,  and  while  the  Bishop  was 
pronouncing  a  benediction  the  company  was  suddenly 
thrown  into  a  great  tumult. 

It  was  then  that  the  coroner  arrived,  panting,  after  a 
long  run.  He  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and 
burst  in  at  the  graveside  between  the  Bishop  and  the 
Deemster. 

“They’ve  come  ashore,”  he  said,  eagerly;  “the  boat’s 
in  harbor  and  the  men  are  here.” 

Twenty  voices  at  once  cried  “Who?”  but  the  Deem¬ 
ster  asked  no  explanation.  “Take  them,”  he  said,  “  arrest 
them  and  his  voice  was  a  bitter  laugh,  and  his  face  ia 
the  light  of  the  torches  was  full  of  malice  and  uncharity. 

Jarvis  Kerruish  stepped  out.  “Where  are  they?”  he 
asked. 

“They’ve  run  across  the  Head  in  the  line  of  the  Cross 
Vein,”  the  coroner  answered ;  “but  six  of  us  will  follow 

them.” 


THE  DEEMSTER.  Zij 

And  without  more  ado  he  twisted  about  and  impressed 
the  five  men  nearest  to  him  into  service  as  constables. 

“  How  many  of  them  are  there?”  said  Jarvis  Kerru- 

ish. 

“  Five,  sir/’  said  the  coroner,  “  Quilleash,  Teare,  Corkell, 
Crennell,  and  the  lad  Davy.” 

“  Then  is  he  not  with  them  ?  ”  cried  the  Deemster,  in  a 
tone  that  went  to  the  Bishop’s  heart  like  iron. 

The  coroner  glanced  uneasily  at  the  Bishop,  and  said, 
“  He  was  with  them,  and  he  is  still  somewhere  about.” 

“Then  away  with  you  ;  arrest  them,  quick,”  the  Deem¬ 
ster  cried  in  another  tone. 

“  But  what  of  the  warrant,  sir  ?  ”  said  the  coroner. 

“  Simpleton,  are  you  waiting  for  that  ?”  the  Deemster 
6houted,  with  a  contemptuous  sweep  of  the  hand.  “  Where 
have  you  been,  that  you  don’t  know  that  your  own  warrant 
is  enough  ?  Arrest  the  scoundrels,  and  you  shall  have  war¬ 
rant  enough  when  you  come  back.” 

But  as  the  six  men  were  pushing  their  way  through  the 
people,  and  leaping  the  cobble  wall  of  the  churchyard,  the 
Deemster  picked  from  the  ground  a  piece  of  slate-stone 
that  had  come  up  from  the  vault,  and  scraped  his  initials 
upon  it  wTith  a  pebble. 

“  Take  this  token,  and  go  after  them,”  he  said  to  Jarvis 
Kerruish,  and  instantly  Jarvis  was  following  the  coroner 
and  his  constables,  with  the  Deemster’s  legal  warranty  for 
their  proceedings. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  the  crowd  that  had 
stood  with  drooping  heads  about  the  Bishop  had  now 
broken  up  in  confusion.  The  Bishop  himself  had  not 
spoken  ;  a  shade  of  bodily  pain  had  passed  over  his  pale 
face,  and  a  cold  damp  had  started  from  his  forehead.  But 
hardly  had  the  coroner  gone,  or  the  people  recovered 
from  their  bewilderment,  when  the  Bishop  lifted  one  hand 
to  bespeak  silence,  and  then  said,  in  a  tone  impossible  to 
describe  :  “Can  any  man  say  of  his  own  knowledge  that 
my  son  was  on  the  Ben-my-Chree  last  night  ?” 

The  Deemster  snorted  contemptuously,  but  none  made 
answer  to  the  Bishop’s  question. 

At  that  moment  there  came  the  sound  of  a  horse’s  hoofs 
on  the  road,  and  immediately  the  old  archdeacon  drew  up. 
He  had  been  preaching  the  Christmas  sermons  at  Peel- 
town  that  day,  and  there  he  had  heard  of  the  death  of  his 
grandson,  and  of  the  suspicions  that  were  in  the  air  con¬ 
cerning  it.  The  dour  spirit  of  the  disappointed  man  had 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


£24 

never  gone#out  with  too  much  warmth  to  the  Bishop,  but 
had  always  been  ready  enough  to  cast  contempt  on  the 
“  moonstruck  ways  ”  of  the  man  who  had  “  usurped"  his 
own  place  of  preferment ;  and  now,  without  contrition  or 
pity,  he  was  ready  to  strike  his  blow  at  the  stricken  man. 

“  I  hear  that  the  Ben-my-Chree  has  put  into  Peel 
harbor, ”  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he  leaned  across  his 
saddle-bow,  with  his  russet  face  toward  where  the  Bishop 
stood. 

“  Well,  well,  well  ? ”  cried  the  Deemster,  rapping  out  at 
the  same  time  his  oath  of  impatience  as  fast  as  a  hen  might 
have  pecked. 

“  And  that  the  crew  are  not  likely  to  show  their  faces 
soon,”  the  archdeacon  continued. 

“Then  you're  wrong,”  said  the  Deemster  imperiously, 
“  for  they've  done  as  much  already.  But  what  about  their 
owner  ?  Was  he  with  them  ?  Have  you  seen  him  ? 
Quick,  let  us  hear  what  you  have  to  say.” 

The  archdeacon  did  not  shift  his  gaze  from  the  Bishop's 
face  but  he  answered  the  Deemster  nevertheless. 

“  Their  owner  7ms  with  them,”  he  said,  “  and  woe  be  to 
him.  I  had  as  lief  that  a  millstone  were  hung  about  my 
neck  as  that  I  stood  before  God  as  the  father  of  that 
man.” 

And  with  such  charity  of  comfort  the  old  archdeacon 
alighted  and  walked  away  with  the  Deemster,  at  the  horse’s 
head.  The  good  man  had  preached  with  unwonted  fervor 
that  day  from  the  Scripture  which  says,  “  With  what  meas¬ 
ure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again.” 

In  another  instant  the  Bishop  was  no  longer  the  same 
man.  Conviction  of  Dan’s  guilt  had  taken  hold  of  him. 
Thus  far  he  had  borne  up  against  all  evil  shown  by  the 
strength  of  his  great  faith  in  his  Maker  to  bring  out  all 
things  well.  But  at  length  that  faith  was  shattered. 
When  the  Deemster  and  the  archdeacon  went  away  to¬ 
gether,  leaving  him  in  the  midst  of  the  people,  he  stood 
there,  while  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  with  the  stupid  be¬ 
wildered  look  of  one  who  has  been  dealt  an  unexpected 
and  dreadful  blow.  The  world  itself  was  crumbling  under 
him.  At  that  first  instant  there  was  something  like  a 
ghastly  smile  playing  over  his  pale  face.  Then  the  truth 
came  rolling  over  him.  The  sight  was  terrible  to  look 
upon.  He  tottered  backward  with  a  low  moan.  When 
his  faith  wrent  down  his  manhood  went  down  with  it. 

“Oh,  my  son,  my  son  !  ”  he  cried  again,  “  how  have  you 


THE  DEEMSTER .  2IJ 

efhortened  my  days!  How  have  you  clothed  me  with 
ehame  !  Oh,  my  son,  my  son  !  ” 

But  love  was  uppermost  even  in  that  bitter  hour,  anc 
the  good  God  sent  the  stricken  man  the  gift  of  tears. 

He  is  dead,  he  is  dead  !  ”  he  cried  ;  “  now  is  my  heart 
smitten  and  withered  like  grass.  Ewan  is  dead.  My  son 
is  dead.  Can  it  be  true  ?  Yes,  dead,  and  worse  than 
dead.  Lord,  Lord,  now  let  me  eat  ashes  for  bread  and 
mingle  my  drink  with  weeping.” 

And  so  he  poured  out  his  broken  spirit  in  a  torrent  of 
wild  laments.  The  disgrace  that  had  bent  his  head  here¬ 
tofore  was  but  a  dream  to  this  deadly  reality.  *  “  Oh,  my 
son,  my  son  !  Would  God  I  had  died  before  I  saw  this 
day  !  ” 

The  people  stood  by  while  the  unassuageable  grief 
shook  the  Bishop  to  the  soul.  Then  one  of  them — it  was 
Thormod  Mylechreest,  the  bastard  son  of  the  rich  man 
who  had  left  his  offspring  to  public  charity — took  the  old 
man  by  the  hand,  and  the  crowd  parted  for  them.  To¬ 
gether  they  passed  out  of  the  churchyard,  and  out  of  the 
hard  glare  of  the  torchlight,  and  set  off  for  Bishop's  Court. 
It  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  see.  How  the  old  father,  stricken 
into  age  by  sorrow  rather  than  years,  tottered  feebly  on 
the  way.  How  low  his  white  head  was  bent,  as  if  the 
darkness  itself  had  eyes  to  peer  into  his  darkened  soul. 

And  yet  more  pitiful  was  it  to  see  how  the  old  man's 
broken  spirit,  reft  of  its  great  bulwark,  which  lay  beneath 
it  like  an  idol  that  was  broken,  did  yet  struggle  with  a 
vain  effort  to  glean  comfort  from  its  fallen  faith.  But 
every  stray  text  that  rose  to  his  heart  seemed  to  wound  it 
afresh.  “As  arrows  in  the  hand  of  a  mighty  man,  so  are 
children  of  the  youth.  .  .  .  They  shall  not  be  ashamed. 

.  .  .  Oh,  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son !  .  .  .  For  thy 

sake  I  have  borne  reproach  ;  shame  hath  covered  my  face. 

.  .  .  I  am  poor  and  needy  ;  make  haste  unto  me,  O 

God.  .  .  .  Hide  not  thy  face  from  thy  servant,  for  I 

am  in  trouble.  .  .  .  O  God,  thou  knowest  my  fool¬ 

ishness  .  .  .  e  And  Eli  said,  It  is  the  Lord,  let  him  do 
as  seemeth  him  good.  .  .  c  The  waters  have  over¬ 
whelmed  me,  the  streams  have  gone  over  my  soul ;  the 
proud  waters  have  gone  over  my  soul.” 

Thus  tottering  feebly  at  the  side  of  Mylechreest  and 
leaning  on  his  arm,  the  Bishop  went  his  way,  and  thus  the 
poor  dead  soul  ot  the  man,  whose  faith  was  gone,  poured 
forth  its  barren  grief.  The  way  was  long,  but  they 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3X0 

reached  Bishop's  Court  at  last,  and  at  sight  of  it  a  sudden 
change  seemed  to  come  over  the  Bishop.  He  stopped 
and  turned  to  Mylechreest,  and  said,  with  a  strange  resig¬ 
nation  : 

“  I  will  be  quiet  Ewan  is  dead,  and  Dan  is  dead. 
Surely  I  shall  quiet  myself  as  a  child  that  is  weaned  ot 
its  mother.  Yes,  my  soul  is  even  as  a  weaned  child.” 

And  with  the  simple  calmness  of  a  little  child  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  Mylechreest  to  bid  him  farewell,  and  when 
Mylechreest,  with  swimming  eyes  and  a  throat  too  full 
for  speech,  bent  over  the  old  man's  hand  and  put  his  lips 
to  it,  the  Bishop  placed  the  other  hand  on  his  head,  as  if 
he  had  asked  for  a  blessing,  and  blessed  him. 

“  Good-night,  my  son,”  he  said  simply,  but  Mylechreest 
could  answer  nothing. 

The  Bishop  was  turning  into  his  house  when  the  mem¬ 
ory  that  had  gone  from  him  for  one  instant  of  blessed  res¬ 
pite  returned,  and  his  sorrow  bled  afresh,  and  he  cried 
piteously.  The  inanimate  old  place  was  in  a  moment  full 
of  spectres.  For  that  night  Bishop's  Court  had  gone  back 
ten  full  years,  and  if  it  was  not  now  musical  with  children's 
voices,  the  spirit  ,pf  one  happy  boy  still  lived  in  it. 

Passing  his  people  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stairs,  where, 
tortured  by  suspense,  bewildered,  distracted,  they  put  their 
doubts  and  rumors  together,  the  Bishop  went  up  to  the 
little  room  above  the  library  that  had  once  been  little 
Danny's  room.  The  door  was  locked,  but  the  key  was 
where  it  had  been  for  many  a  day — though  Dan  in  his 
headstrong  waywardness  had  known  nothing  of  that — it 
was  in  the  Bishop's  pocket.  Inside  the  muggy  odor  was 
of  a  chamber  long  shut  up.  The  little  bed  was  still  in  the 
corner,  and  its  quilted  counterpane  lay  thick  in  dust. 
Dust  covered  the  walls,  and  the  floor  also,  and  the  table 
under  the  window  was  heavy  with  it.  Shutting  himself  in 
this  dusty  crib,  the  Bishop  drew  from  under  the  bed  a 
glass-covered  case,  and  opened  it,  and  lifted  out  one  by 
one  the  things  it  contafned.  They  were  a  child’s  play¬ 
things — a  whip,  a  glass  marble,  a  whistle,  an  old  Manx 
penny,  a  tomtit's  mossy  nest  with  three  speckled  blue  eggs 
in  it,  some  pearly  shells,  and  a  bit  of  shrivelled  seaweed. 
And  each  poor  relic  as  it  came  up  awoke  a  new  memory 
and  a  new  grief,  and  the  fingers  trembled  that  held  them. 
The  sense  of  a  boy’s  sport  and  a  boy's  high  spirits,  long 
dumb  and  dead,  touched  the  old  man  to  the  quick  withiq 
these  heavy  walls. 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


The  Bishop  replaced  the  glass-covered  case,  locked  the 
room,  and  went  down  to  his  library.  But  the  child  ghost 
that  lived  in  that  gaunt  old  house  did  not  keep  to  the  crib 
upstairs.  Into  this  book-clad  room  it  followed  the  Bishop, 
with  blue  eyes  and  laughter  on  the  red  lips  ;  with  a  hop, 
skip,  and  a  jump,  and  a  pair  of  spectacles  perched  inse¬ 
curely  on  the  diminutive  nose. 

Ten  years  had  rolled  back  for  the  broken-hearted  father 
that  night,  and  Dan,  who  was  lost  to  him  in  life,  lived  in 
his  remembrance  only  as  a  beautiful,  bright,  happy,  spir¬ 
ited,  innocent  child  that  could  never  grow  older,  but  must 
be  a  child  forever. 

The  Bishop  could  endure  the  old  house  no  longer.  It 
was  too  full  of  spectres.  He  would  go  out  and  tramp  the 
roads  the  long  night  through.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
through  snow  or  rain,  under  the  moonlight  or  the  stars 
until  the  day  dawned,  and  the  pitiless  sun  should  rise  again 
over  the  heedless  sleeping  world. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

BY  BISHOP'S  LAW  OR  DEEMSTER^ 

The  Bishop  had  gone  into  the  hall  for  his  cloak  and  hat 
when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  Deemster,  who  was 
entering  the  house.  At  sight  of  his  brother  his  bewil¬ 
dered  mind  made  some  feeble  efforts  to  brace  itself  up. 

“  Ah,  is  it  you,  Thorkell  ?  Then  you  have  come  at  last ! 
I  had  given  you  up.  But  I  am  going  out  to-night.  Will 
you  not  come  into  the  library  with  me  ?  But  perhaps  you 
are  going  somewhere  ?" 

It  was  a  painful  spectacle,  the  strong  brain  of  the  strong 
man  tottering  visibly.  The  Deemster  set  down  his  hat 
and  cane,  and  looked  up  with  a  cold,  mute  stare  in  answer 
to  his  brother's  inconsequent  questions.  Then,  without 
speaking,  he  went  into  the  library,  and  the  Bishop  fol¬ 
lowed  him  with  a  feeble,  irregular  step,  humming  a  lively 
tune — it  was  “  Sally  in  our  Alley  "—and  smiling  a  melan¬ 
choly,  jaunty,  bankrupt  smile. 

“  Gilcrist,”  said  the  Deemster,  imperiously,  and  he 
closed  the  door  behind  them  as  he  spoke,  “  let  us  put  away 
all  pretence,  and  talk  like  men.  We  have  serious  work 
before  us,  I  promise  you." 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


2x8 

By  a  perceptible  spasm  of  will,  the  Bishop  seemed  to 
regain  command  of  his  faculties,  and  his  countenance, 
that  had  been  mellowed  down  to  most  pitiful  weakness, 
grew  on  the  instant  firm  and  pale. 

“  What  is  it,  Thorkell  ?  ”  he  said,  in  a  more  resolute  tone. 

Then  the  Deemster  asked  deliberately,  “  What  do  you 
intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  my  son  ?” 

“  What  do  I  mean  to  do  !  I  ?  Do  you  asjc  me  what  I 
intend  to  do  ?  ”  said  the  Bishop,  in  a  husky  whisper. 

“  I  ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do,”  said  the  Deemster, 
firmly.  “  Gilcrist,  let  us  make  no  faces.  You  do  not 
need  that  I  should  tell  you  what  powers  of  jurisdiction 
over  felonies  are  held  by  the  Bishop  of  this  island  as  its 
spiritual  baron.  More  than  once  you  have  reminded  me, 
and  none  too  courteously,  of  those  same  powers  when  they 
have  served  your  turn.  They  are  to-day  what  they  were 
yesterday,  and  so  I  ask  you  again,  What  do  you  intend  to 
do  with  the  murderer  of  my  son  ?” 

The  Bishop’s  breath  seemed  suspended  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  in  broken  accents  he  said,  softly,  “You  ask  me 
what  I  intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  our  Ewan — his 
murderer  you  say  ?  ” 

In  a  cold  and  resolute  tone  the  Deemster  said  again. 
“His  murderer,”  and  bowed  stiffly. 

The  Bishop’s  confusion  seemed  to  overwhelm  him.  “  Is 
it  not  assuming  too  much,  Thorkell?”  he  said,  and  while 
his  fingers  trembled  as  he  unlaced  them  before  him,  the 
same  sad  smile  as  before  passed  across  his  face. 

“  Listen,  and  say  whether  it  is  not  so  or  not,”  said  the 
Deemster,  with  a  manner  of  rigid  impassibility.  “  At 
three  o’clock  yesterday  my  son  left  me  at  my  own  house 
with  the  declared  purpose  of  going  in  search  of  your  son. 
With  what  object  ?  Wait.  At  half-past  three  he  asked 
for  your  son  at  the  house  they  shared  together.  He  was 
then  told  that  your  son  would  be  found  at  the  village. 
Before  four  o’clock  he  inquired  for  him  at  the  village  pot¬ 
house,  your  son’s  daily  and  nightly  haunt.  There  he  was 
told  that  the  man  he  wanted  had  been  seen  going  down 
toward  the  creek,  the  frequent  anchorage  of  the  fishing- 
smack  the  Ben-my-Chree,  with  which  he  has  frittered 
away  his  time  and  your  money.  As  the  parish  clock  was 
striking  four  he  was  seen  in  the  lane  leading  to  the  creek, 
walking  briskly  down  to  it.  He  was  never  seen  again.” 

“  My  brother,  my  brother,  what  proof  is  there  in  that  ?,f 
©aid  the  Bishop,  with  a  gesture  of  protestation, 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


“  Listen.  That  creek  under  the  Head  of  Orrisdale  is 
known  to  the  fisherfolk  as  the  Lockjaw.  Do  you  need  to 
be  told  why  ?  Because  there  is  only  one  road  out  of  it. 
My  son  went  into  the  creek,  but  he  never  left  it  alive.” 

“  How  is  this  known,  Thorkell  ?  ” 

“  How  ?  In  this  way.  Almost  immediately  my  son  had 
gone  from  my  house  Jarvis  Kerruish  went  after  him,  to 
overtake  him  and  bring  him  back.  Not  knowing  the 
course,  Jarvis  had  to  feel  his  way  and  inquire,  but  he 
came  upon  his  trace  at  last,  and  followed  Ewan  on  the 
road  he  had  taken,  and  reached  the  creek  soon  after  the 
parish  clock  struck  five.  Now,  if  my  son  had  returned  as 
he  went,  Jarvis  Kerruisli  must  have  met  him.” 

“  Patience,  Thorkell,  have  patience,”  said  the  Bishop. 
“  If  Ewan  found  Dan  at  the  Lockjaw  Creek,  why  did  not 
th^  young  man  Jarvis  find  both  of  them  there  ?  ” 

“  Why  ?  ”  the  Deemster  echoed,  “  because  the  one  was 
dead,  and  the  other  in  hiding.” 

The  Bishop  was  standing  at  that  moment  by  the  table, 
and  one  hand  was  touching  something  that  lay  upon  it. 
A  cry  that  was  half  a  sigh  and  half  a  suppressed  scream 
of  terror  burst  from  him.  The  Deemster  understood  it 
not,  but  set  it  down  to  the  searching  power  of  his  own 
words.  Shuddering  from  head  to  foot  the  Bishop  looked 
down  at  the  thing  his  hand  had  touched.  It  was  the 
militia  belt.  He  had  left  it  where  it  had  fallen  from  his 
fingers  when  the  men  brought  it  to  him.  Beside  it,  half 
hidden  by  many  books  and  papers,  the  two  small  daggers 
lay. 

Then  a  little  low  cunning  crept  over  the  heart  of  that 
saintly  man,  and  he  glanced  up  into  his  brother’s  face 
with  a  dissembled  look,  not  of  inquiry,  but  of  supplica¬ 
tion.  The  Deemster’s  face  was  imperious,  and  his  eyes 
betrayed  no  discovery.  He  had  seen  nothing. 

“You  make  me  shudder,  Thorkell,”  the  Bishop  mur¬ 
mured,  and  while  he  spoke  he  lifted  the  belt  and  daggers 
furtively  amid  a  chaos  of  loose  papers,  and  whipped  them 
into  the  door  of  a  cabinet  that  stood  open. 

His  duplicity  had  succeeded  ;  nor  even  the  hollow  ring 
of  his  voice  had  awakened  suspicion,  but  he  sat  down  with 
a  crushed  and  abject  mien.  His  manhood  had  gone, 
shame  overwhelmed  him,  and  he  ceased  to  contend. 

“  I  said  there  was  only  one  way  out  of  the  creek/*  said 
the  Deemster,  “  but  there  are  two#” 

•‘Ah! " 


?20 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


“  The  other  way  is  by  the  sea.  My  son  took  that  way, 
but  he  took  it  as  a  dead  man,  and  when  he  came~ashore  he 
was  wrapped  for  sea-burial — by  ignorant  bunglers  who 
had  never  buried  a  body  at  sea  before — in  a  sailcloth  of 
the  Ben-my-Chree.” 

The  Bishop  groaned,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

“  Do  you  ask  for  further  evidence  ?”  said  the  Deemster, 
in  a  relentless  voice.  “If  so,  it  is  at  hand.  Where  was 
the  Ben-my-Chree  last  night  ?  It  was  on  the  sea.  Last 
night  was  Christmas  Eve,  a  night  of  twenty  old  Manx 
customs.  Where  were  the  boat’s  crew  and  owner  ?  They 
were  away  from  their  homes.  To-day  was  Christmas  Day. 
Where  were  the  men?  Their  wives  and  children  were 
waiting  for  some  of  them  to  eat  with  them  their  Christmas 
dinner  and  drink  their  Christmas  ale.  But  they  were  not 
in  their  houses,  and  no  one  knew  where  they  were.  Can 
circumstances  be  more  damning  ?  Speak,  and  say.  Don’t 
wring  your  hands  ;  be  a  man,  and  look  me  in  the  face.” 

“Have  mercy,  Thorkell,”  the  Bishop  murmured,  utterly 
prostrate.  But  the  Deemster  went  on  to  lash  him  as  a 
brutal  master  whips  a  broken-winded  horse. 

“When  the  Ben-my-Chree  came  into  harbor  to-night 
what  was  the  behavior  of  crew  and  owner  ?  Did  they  go 
about  their  business  as  they  are  wont  to  do  when  wind 
and  tide  has  kept  them  too  long  at  sea  ?  Did  they  show 
their  faces  before  suspicion  as  men  should  who  have  no 
fear?  No.  They  skulked  away.  They  fled  from  ques¬ 
tion.  At  this  moment  they  are  being  pursued.” 

The  Bishop  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

“And  so  I  ask  you  again,”  resumed  the  Deemster, 
u what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  my  son  ?” 

“Oh,  Dan,  Dan,  my  boy,  my  boy!”  the  Bishop  sobbed, 
and  for  a  moment  his  grief  mastered  all  other  emotions. 

“  Ah  !  see  how  it  is  !  You  name  your  son,  and  you  know 
that  he  is  guilty.” 

The  Bishop  lifted  up  his  head,  and  his  eyes  flashed.  “  I 
do  not  know  that  my  son  is  guilty,”  he  said  in  a  tone  that 
made  the  Deemster  pause.  But,  speedily  recovering  his 
self-command,  the  Deemster  continued,  in  a  tone  of  confi¬ 
dence,  “Your  conscience  tells  you  that  it  is  so.” 

The  Bishop’s  spirit  was  broken  in  a  moment. 

“What  would  you  have  me  do,  Thorkell  ?” 

“To  present  your  son  for  murder  in  the  court  of  your 
barony.” 

“  Man,  man,  do  you  wish  to  abase  me  ?  ”  said  the  Bish- 


TBE  DEEMSTER. 


224 

op.  u  Do  you  come  to  drive  me  to  despair  ?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  I  am  bent  to  the  very  earth  with  grief,  but 
that  you  of  all  men  should  crush  me  to  the  dust  itself  with 
shame  ?  Think  of  it — my  son  is  my  only  tie  to  earth,  I 
have  none  left  but  him  ;  and,  because  I  am  a  judge  in  the 
island  as  well  as  its  poor  priest,  I  am  to  take  him  and  put 
him  to  death.” 

Then  his  voice,  which  had  been  faint,  grew  formidable. 

“  What  is  it  you  mean  by  this  cruel  torture  ?  If  my  son 
is  guilty,  must  his  crime  go  unpunished  though  his  father’s 
hand  is  not  lifted  against  him  ?  For  what  business  are 
you  yourself  on  this  little  plot  of  earth  ?  You  are  here  to 
punish  the  evil-doer.  It  is  for  you  to  punish  him  if  he  is 
guilty.  But  no,  for  you  to  do  that  would  be  for  you  to 
be  merciful.  Mercy  you  will  not  show  to  him  or  me* 
And,  to  make  a  crime  that  is  terrible  at  the  best  thrice 
shameful  as  well,  you  would  put  a  father  as  judge  over 
his  son.  Man,  man,  have  you  no  pity?  No  bowels  of 
compassion  ?  Think  of  it.  My  son  is  myself,  life  of  my 
life.  Can  I  lop  away  my  right  hand  and  still  keep  all  my 
members  ?  Only  think  of  it.  Thorkell,  Thorkell,  my 
brother,  think  of  it.  I  am  a  father,  and  so  are  you. 
Could  you  condemn  to  death  your  own  son  ?  ” 

The  sonorous  voice  had  broken  again  to  a  sob  of  sup¬ 
plication. 

“Yes,  you  are  a  father,”  said  the  Deemster,  unmoved, 
“but  you  are  also  a  priest  amd  a  judge.  Your  son  is 
guilty  of  a  crime - ” 

“  Who  says  he  is  guilty  ?  ” 

“  Yourself  said  as  much  a  moment  since.” 

“  Have  I  said  so  ?  What  did  I  say  ?  They  had  no  cause 
of  quarrel — Dan  and  Ewan.  They  loved  each  other. 
But  I  cannot  think.  My  head  aches.  I  fear  my  mind  is 
weakened  by  these  terrible  events.” 

The  Bishop  pressed  his  forehead  hard,  like  a  man  in 
bodily  pain,  but  the  Deemster  showed  no  ruth. 

“  It  is  now  for  you  to  put  the  father  aside  and  let  the 
priest-judge  come  forward.  It  is  your  duty  to  God  and 
your  Church.  Cast  your  selfish  interests  behind  you  and 
quit  yourself  like  one  to  whom  all  eyes  look  up.  The 
Bishop  has  a  sacred  mission.  Fulfil  it.  You  have  pun¬ 
ished  offenders  against  God’s  law  and  the  Church’s  rule 
beforetime.  Don’t  let  it  be  said  that  the  laws  of  God  and 
Church  are  to  pass  by  the  house  of  their  Bishop.” 

“  Pity,  pity  1  have  pity,”  the  Bishop  murmured. 


Tjm  DEEMSTER. 


“  Set  yowr  ©wa  house  in  order,  or  with  what  courage 
will  you  ever  again  dare  to  intrude  upon  the  houses  of 
your  people  ?  Now  is  your  time  to  show  that  you  can 
practise  the  hard  doctrine  that  you  have  preached.  Send 
him  to  the  scaffold — yes,  to  the  scaffold - ” 

The  Bishop  held  up  his  two  hands  and  cried  :  “  Listen, 
listen.  What  would  it  avail  you  though  my  son’s  life  were 
given  in  forfeit  for  the  life  of  your  son  ?  You  never  loved 
Ewan.  Ah  !  it  is  true,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  you 
never  loved  him.  While  I  shall  have  lost  two  sons  at  a 
blow.  Are  you  a  Christian,  to  thirst  like  this  for  blood  ? 

It  is  not  justice  you  want  ;  it  is  vengeance.  But  vengeance 
belongs  to  God.” 

“Is  he  not  guilty?”  the  Deemster  answered.  “And  is 
it  not  your  duty  and  mine  to  punish  the  guilty  ?  ” 

But  the  Bishop  went  on  impetuously,  panting  as  he 
spoke,  and  in  a.  faint,  broken  tone  : 

“  Then  if  you  should  be  mistaken — if  all  this  that  you 
tell  me  should  be  a  fatal  coincidence  that  "my  son  cannot  1 
explain  away  ?  What  if  I  took  him  and  presented  him, 
and  sent  him  to  the  gallows,  as  you  say,  and  some  day, 
when  all  that  is  now  dark  became  light,  and  the  truth  stood 
revealed,  what  if  then  I  had  to  say  to  myself  before  God, 
i  I  have  taken  the  life  of  my  son  ?  ’  Brother,  is  your  heart 
brazed  out  that  you  can  think  of  it  without  pity  ?” 

The  Bishop  had  dropped  to  his  knees. 

“  I  see  that  you  are  a  coward,”  said  the  Deemster,  con¬ 
temptuously.  “  And  so  this  is  what  your  religion  comes 
to  !  I  tell  you  that  the  eyes  of  the  people  of  this  island 
are  on  you.  If  you  take  the  right  course  now  their  rever¬ 
ence  is  yours  ;  if  the  wrong  one,  it  will  be  the  worst  evil 
that  has  ever  befallen  you  from  your  youth  upward.” 

The  Bishop  cried,  “  Mercy,  mercy — for  Christ’s  sake, 
mercy  !  ”  and  he  looked  about  the  room  with  terrified  eyes, 
as  if  he  would  fly  from  it  if  he  could. 

But  the  Deemster’s  lash  had  one  still  heavier  blow. 

“  More,  more,”  he  said — “your  Church  is  on  its  trial  also, 
and  if  you  fail  of  your  duty  now,  the  people  will  rise  and 
sweep  it  away.” 

Then  a  great  spasm  of  strength  came  to  the  Bishop,  and 
he  rose  to  his  feet. 

“  Silence,  sir !  ”  he  said,  and  the  Deemster  quailed  visibly 
before  the  heat  and  flame  of  his  voice  and  manner. 

But  the  spasm  was  gone  in  an  instant,  for  his  faith  was 

dead  as  his  soul  was  dead,  and  only  the  galvanic  impulse 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


6f  the  outraged  thing  remained.  And  truly  his  faith  had 
taken  his  manhood  with  it,  for  he  sat  down  and  sobbed. 
In  a  few  moments  more  the  Deemster  left  him  without  an¬ 
other  word.  Theirs  had  been  a  terrible  interview,  and  its 
mark  remained  to  the  end  like  a  brand  of  iron  on  the 
hearts  of  both  the  brothers. 

The  night  was  dark  but  not  cold,  and  the  roads  were 
soft  and  draggy.  Over  the  long  mile  that  divided  Bishop’s 
Court  from  Ballamona  the  old  Deemster  walked  home 
with  a  mind  more  at  ease  than  he  had  known  for  a  score 
of  years.  “It  was  true  enough,  as  he  said,  that  I  never 
lo.ved  Ewan,”  the  Deemster  thought.  “  But  then  whose 
was  the  fault  but  Ewan’s  own  ?  At  every  step  he  was 
against  me,  and  if  he  took  the  side  of  the  Bishop  and  his 
waistrel  son  he  did  it  to  his  own  confusion.  And  he  had 
his  good  parts,  too.  Patient  and  long-suffering  like  his 
mother,  poor  woman,  dead  and  gone.  A  little  like  my  old 
father  also,  the  simple  soul.  With  fire,  too,  and  rather 
headstrong  at  times.  I  wonder  how  it  all  happened.” 

Then,  as  he  trudged  along  through  the  dark  roads,  his 
mind  turned  full  on  Dan.  “  He  must  die,”  he  thought, 
with  content  and  a  secret  satisfaction.  “  By  Bishop’s  law 
or  Deemster’s  he  cannot  fail  but  be  punished  with  death. 
And  so  this  is  the  end  !  He  was  to  have  his  foot  on  my 
neck  some  day.  So  much  for  the  brave  vaunt  and  proph¬ 
ecy.  And  when  he  is  dead  my  fate  is  broken.  Tut,  who 
talks  of  fate  in  these  days  ?  Idle  chatter  and  balderdash  !  ” 

When  the  Deemster  got  to  Ballamona  he  found  the  coro¬ 
ner,  Quayle  the  Gyke,  in  the  hall  awaiting  him.  Jarvis  Ker- 
ruish  was  on  the  settle  pushing  off  his  slush-covered  boots 
With  a  bootjack. 

“Why,  what  ?  How’s  this  ?  ”  said  the  Deemster. 

“They’ve  escaped  us  so  far,”  said  the  coroner,  meekly. 

“  Escaped  you  ?  What  ?  In  this  little  rat-hole  of  an 
island,  and  they’ve  escaped  you  ?  ” 

“We  gave  them  chase  for  six  miles,  sir.  They’ve  taken 
the  mountains  for  it.  Up  past  the  Sherragh  Vane  at  Suiby, 
and  under  Snaefell  and  Beinn-y-Phott — that’s  their  way, 
sir.  And  it  was  black  dark  up  yonder,  and  we  had  to 
leave  it  till  the  morrow.  We’ll  take  them,  sir,  make  your- 
self'feasy.” 

“  Had  anyone  seen  them  ?  Is  he  with  them  ?  ” 

“Old  Moore,  the  mill&r  at  Suiby,  saw  them  as  they  went 
by  the  mill  running  mortal  hard.  But  he  told  US  no,  the 
captain  wasn’t  among  them.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

“  What !  then  you’ve  been  wasting  your  wind  over  tl»6 
fishermen  while  he  has  been  clearing  away  ? ” 

Jarvis  Kerruish  raised  his  head  from  where  he  was  pull¬ 
ing  on  his  slippers. 

“  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  sir,”  he  said,  calmly.  “We  will 
find  him,  though  he  lies  like  a  toad  under  a  stone.” 

“  Mettle,  mettle,”  the  Deemster  chuckled  into  his  breast, 
and  proceeded  to  throw  off  his  cloak.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  coroner  again. 

“  Have  you  summoned  the  jury  of  inquiry  ? ” 

“  I  have,  sir — six  men  of  the  parish — court-house  at 
Ramsey — eight  in  the  morning.” 

“We  must  indict  the  whole  six  of  them.  You  have  their 
names?  Jarvis  will  write  them  down  for  you.  We  cannot 
have  five  of  them  giving  evidence  for  the  sixth.” 

The  Deemster  left  the  hall  with  his  quick  and  restless 
step,  and  turned  into  the  dining-room,  where  Mona  was 
helping  to  lay  the  supper.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  her 
eyes  were  red  with  long  weeping,  she  moved  to  and  fro 
with  a  slow  step,  and  misery  itself  seemed  to  sit  on  her. 
But  the  Deemster  saw  nothing  of  this.  “  Mona,”  he  said, 
“70U  must  be  stirring  before  daybreak  to-morrow.” 

She  lifted  her  face  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

“  We  breakfast  at  half-past  six,  and  leave  in  the  coach 
at  seven.” 

With  a  puzzled  expression  she  asked  in  a  low  tone  where 
they  were  to  go. 

“  To  Ramsey,  for  the  court  of  inquiry,”  he  answered 
with  complacency. 

Mona’s  left  hand  went  up  to  her  breast,  and  her  breath 
came  quick. 

“  But  why  am  I  to  go  ?  ”  she  asked,  timidly. 

“  Because  in  cases  of  this  kind,  when  the  main  evidence 
is  circumstantial,  it  is  necessary  to  prove  a  motive  before 
it  is  possible  to  frame  an  indictment.” 

“  Well,  father  ?”  Mona’s  red  eyes  opened  wide  with  a 
startled  look,  and  their  long  lashes  trembled. 

“  Well,  girl,  you  shall  prove  the  motive.” 

The  Deemster  opened  the  snuff-horn  on  the  mantle-shelf. 

“/am  to  do  so  ?” 

The  Deemster  glanced  up  sharply  under  his  spectacles. 
*Yes,  you,  child — you,”  he  said,  with  quiet  emphasis,  and 
lifted  his  pinch  of  snuff  to  his  nose. 

Mona’s  breast  began  to  heave,  and  all  her  slight  framo 
to  quiver. 


THE  DEEMSTER* 


225 


*  Father,”  she  said,  faintly,  “do  you  mean  that  I  am  to 
be  the  chief  witness  against  the  man  who  took  my  broth* 
er’s  life  ?  ” 

“Well,  perhaps,  but  we  shall  see.  And  now  for  sup¬ 
per,  and  then  to  bed,  for  we  must  be  stirring  before  the 
lark.” 

Mona  was  going  out  of  the  room  with  a  heavy  step,  when 
the  Deemster,  who  had  seated  himself  at  the  table,  raised 
his  eyes.  “Wait,”  he  said;  “when  were  you  last  out  of 
the  house  ?  ” 

“Yesterday  morning,  sir.  I  was  at  the  ploughing 
match.” 

“  Have  you  had  any  visitors  since  five  last  night  ?" 

“  Visitors — five — I  do  not  understand - ” 

“  That  will  do,  child.” 

Jarvis  Kerruish  came  into  the  room  at  this  moment.  He 
was  the  Deemster’s  sole  companion  at  supper  that  night. 
And  so  ended  that  terrible  Christmas  Day, 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  DEEMSTER’S  INQUEST. 

It  was  at  the  late  dawn  of  the  following  morning  that 
Dan  Mylrea  escaped  from  his  night-long  burial  in  the 
shaft  of  the  disused  lead  mine.  On  his  way  to  Ballamona 
he  went  by  the  little  shed  where  Mrs.  Kerruish  lived  with 
her  daughter  Mally.  The  sound  of  his  footstep  on  the 
path  brought  the  old  woman  to  the  doorway. 

“  Asking  pardon,  sir,”  the  old  body  said,  “  and  which  way 
may  you  be  going  ?  ” 

Dan  answered  that  he  was  going  to  Ballamona. 

“  Not  to  the  Deemster’s  ?  Yes  ?  Och  !  no.  Why,  d’ye 
say  ?  Well,  my  daughter  was  away  at  the  Street  last  night 
— where  she  allis  is  o’  nights,  more’s  the  pity,  leaving  me, 
alone  woman,  to  fret  and  fidget — and  there  in  the  house 
where  they  tell  all  newses,  the  guzzling  craythurs,  they 
were  sayin’  as  maybe  it  was  yourself  as  shouldn’t  trouble 
the  Deemster  for  a  bit  of  a  spell  longer.” 

Dan  took  nq  further  heed  of  the  old  woman’s  warning 
than  to  thank  her  as  he  passed  on.  When  he  got  to  Bal¬ 
lamona  the  familiar  place  looked  strange  and  empty.  He 
knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer.  He  called*  but  them 
!5 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


796 

was  no  reply.  Presently  a  foot  on  the  gravel  woke  the 
vacant  stillness.  It  was  Hommy-beg,  and  at  sight  of  Dan 
he  lifted  both  his  hands. 

Then,  amid  many  solemn  exclamations,  slowly,  dis- 
jointedly,  explaining,  excusing,  Hommy  told  what  had  oc¬ 
curred.  And  no  sooner  had  Dan  realized  the  business  that 
was  afoot,  and  that  the  Deemster,  with  Jarvis  Kerruish 
and  Mona,  were  gone  to  Ramsey  on  a  court  of  inquiry 
touching  Ewan’s  death,  than  he  straightway  set  his  face  in 
the  same  direction. 

"  The  court  begins  its  business  at  eight,  you  say  ?  Well, 
good-by,  Hommy,  and  God  bless  you  !  ”  he  said,  and  turned 
sharply  away.  But  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  came  back 
the  pace  or  two.  “  Wait,  let  us  shake  hands,  old  friend  ; 
we  may  not  have  another  chance.  Good-by.” 

In  a  moment  Dan  was  going  at  a  quick  pace  down  the 
road. 

It  was  a  heavy  morning.  The  mists  were  gliding  slowly 
up  the  mountains  in  grim,  hooded  shapes,  their  long  white 
skirts  sweeping  the  meadow's  as  they  passed.  Overhead 
the  sky  was  dim  and  empty.  Underfoot  the  roads  w7ere 
wet  and  thick.  But  Dan  felt  nothing  of  this  wintry  gloom. 
It  did  not  touch  his  emancipated  spirit.  His  face  seemed 
to  open  as  he  walked,  and  his  very  stature  to  increase.  He 
reflected  that  the  lumbering  coach  which  carried  the 
Deemster  and  his  daughter  and  bastard  son  must  now  be 
far  on  its  way  through  the  ruts  of  this  rough  turnpike  that 
lay  between  Michael  and  Ramsey.  And  he  pushed  on 
with  new  vigor. 

v  He  passed  few  persons  on  the  roads.  The  houses  seemed 
to  be  deserted.  Here  or  there  a  little  brood  of  children 
played  about  a  cottage  door.  He  hailed  them  cheerily  as 
he  w*ent  by,  and  could  not  help  observing  that  wdien  the 
little  ones  recognized  him  they  dropped  their  play  and 
huddled  together  at  the  threshold  Jike  sheep  affrighted. 

As  he  passed  into  Baliaugh  under  the  foot  of  Glen  Dhoo 
he  came  upon  Corlett  Ballafayle.  The  great  man  opened 
his  eyes  wide  at  sight  of  Dan,  and  made  no  answer  to  his 
salutation  ;  but  when  Dan  had  gone  on  some  distance  he 
turned,  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse,  and  hailed  him  with 
scant  ceremony. 

“Ay,  why  do  you  take  that  road  ? ” 

Dan  twisted  his  head,  but  he  did  not  stop,  and  Corlett 
Ballafayle  laughed  in  his  throat  at  a  second  and  more  sat¬ 
isfying  reflection,  and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer 


THE  DEEMSTER. 

to  hia  question,  ho  waved  the  back  of  one  hand,  and  said* 

“All  right  Follow  on.  It’s  nothing  to  me.” 

Dan  had  seen  the  flicker  of  good-will,  followed  by  the 
flame  of  uncharity,  that  flashed  over  the  man’s  face,  but 
he  had  no  taste  or  time  for  parley.  Pushing  on  past  the 
muggy  inn  by  the  bridge,  past  the  smithy  that  stood  there 
and  the  brewery  that  stood  opposite,  he  came  into  the  vil¬ 
lage.  There  the  women,  standing  at  their  doors,  put  their 
heads  together,  looked  after  him  and  whispered,  and,  like 
Corlett  Ballafayle,  forgot  to  answer  his  greeting.  It  was 
then  that  over  his  new-found  elevation  of  soul  Dan  felt  a 
creeping  sense  of  shame.  The  horror  and  terror  that  had 
gone  before  had  left  no  room  for  the  lower  emotion. 
Overwhelmed  by  a  crushing  idea  of  his  guilt  before  God, 
he  had  not  realized  his  position  in  the-eyep  of  his  fellow- 
men.  But  now  he  realized  it,  and  knew  that  his  crime  was 
known.  He  saw  himself  as  a  hunted  man,  a  homeless, 
friendless  wanderer  on  the  earth,  a  murderer  from  whom 
all  must  shrink.  His  head  fell  into  his  breast  as  he  walked, 
his  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground,  he  lifted  his  face  no  more 
to  the  faces  of  the  people  whom  he  passed,  and  gave  none 
his  salutation. 

The  mists  lifted  off  the  mountains  as  the  morning  wore 
on,  and  the  bald  crowns  were  seen  against  the  empty  sky. 
Dan  quickened  his  pace.  When  he  came  to  Sulby  it  had 
almost  quickened  to  a  run,  and  as  he  went  by  the  mill  in 
the  village  he  noticed  that  old  Moore,  the  miller,  who  was 
a  square-set,  middle-aged  man  with  a  heavy  jowl,  stood  at 
the  open  door  and  watched  him.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes, 
but  he  was  conscious  that  Moore  turned  hurriedly  into  the 
mill,  and  that  at  the  next  instant  on«  of  his  men  came  as 
hurriedly  out  of  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  he  was  at  the  bridge  that  crosses 
the  Sulby  River,  and  there  he  was  Suddenly  confronted  by 
a  gang  of  men,  with  Moore  at  their  head.  They  had 
crossed  the  river  by  the  ford  at  the  mill-side,  and  running 
along  the  southern  bank  of  it,  had  come  up  to  the  bridge 
at  the  moment  that  Dan  was  about  to  cross  it  from  the 
road.  Armed  with  heavy  sticks,  which  they  carried 
threateningly,  they  called  on  Dan  to  surrender  himself. 
Dan  stopped,  looked  into  their  hot  faces,  and  said,  “  Men, 
I  know  what  you  think,  but  you  are  wrong.  I  am  not 
running  away  ;  I  am  going  to  Ramsey  court  house.” 

At  that  the  men  laughed  derisively,  and  the  miller  said 
With  a  grin  that  if  Dan  was  on  his  road  to  Ramsev  they 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*2 

would  take  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  just  to  tet  hhn 
safely  landed  there. 

Dan's  manner  was  quiet.  He  looked  about  him  with 
calm  but  searching  looks.  At  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river,  close  to  the  foot  of  the  bridge,  there  was  a  smithy. 
At  that  moment  the  smith  was  hooping  a  cart-wheel,  and 
his  striker  set  down  his  sledge  and  tied  up  his  leather 
apron  to  look  on  and  listen. 

“Men,”  said  Dan  again,  in  a  voice  that  was  low  but 
strong  and  resolute,  “it  is  the  truth  that  I  am  on  my  way 
to  Ramsey  court-house,  but  I  mean  to  go  alone,  and  don’t 
intend  to  allow  any  man  to  take  me  there  as  a  pris¬ 
oner.” 

“A  likely  tale,”  said  the  miller,  and  with  that  he  stepped 
up  to  Dan  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  At  the  next 
moment  the  man  of  flour  had  loosed  his  grip  with  a  shout, 
and  his  white  coat  was  rolling  in  the  thick  mud  of  the  wet 
road.  Then  the  other  men  closed  around  with  sticks  up¬ 
lifted,  but  before  they  quite  realized  what  they  were  to  do, 
Dan  had  twisted  some  steps  aside,  darted  through  them, 
laid  hold  of  the  smith's  sledge,  swung  it  on  his  shoulder, 
aad  faced  about. 

“Now,  men,”  he  said,  as  calmly  as  before,  “  none  of  you 
shall  take  me  to  Ramsey,  and  none  of  you  shall  follow  me 
there.  I  must  go  alone.” 

The  men  had  fallen  quickly  back.  Dan's  strength  of 
muscle  was  known,  and  his  stature  was  a  thing  to  respect. 
They  were  silent  for  a  moment  and  dropped  their  sticks. 
Then  they  began  to  mutter  among  themselves,  and  ask 
what  it  was  to  them  after  all,  and  what  for  should  they 
meddle,  and  what  was  a  few  shillin'  anyway  ? 

Dan  and  his  sledge  passed  through.  The  encounter  had 
cost  him  some  minutes  of  precious  time,  but  the  ardor  of 
his  purpose  had  suffered  no  abatement  from  the  untoward 
event,  though  his  heart  was  the  heavier  for  it  and  the 
dreary  day  looked  the  darker. 

Near  the  angle  of  the  road  that  turns  to  the  left  to  Ram¬ 
sey  and  to  the  right  to  the  Sherragh  Vane,  there  was  a 
little  thatched  cottage  of  one  story,  with  its  window  level 
with  the  road.  It  was  the  house  of  a  cobbler  named  Cal- 
lister,  a  lean,  hungry,  elderly  man,  who  lived  there  alone 
under  the  ban  of  an  old  rumor  of  evil  doings  of  some  sort 
in  his  youth.  Dan  knew  the  poor  soul.  Such  human 
ruins  had  never  been  quarry  to  him,  the  big-hearted  scape¬ 
grace,  and  now,  drawing  near,  he  heard  the  beat  of  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


asg 

old  man's  hammer  as  he  worked.  The  hammering  ceased, 
and  Callister  appeared  at  his  door. 

“Capt’n,”  he  stammered,  “do  you  know — do  you 

know - ?  ”  He  tried  to  frame  his  words  and  could  not, 

and  at  last  he  blurted  out,  “  Quayle  the  Gyke  drove  by  an 
hour  ago.” 

Dan  knew  what  was  in  the  heart  of  the  poor  battered 
creature,  and  it  touched  him  deeply.  He  was  moving  off 
without  speaking,  merely  waving  his  hand  for-answer  and 
adieu,  when  the  cobbler's  dog,  as  lean  and  hungry  as  its 
master  to  look  upon,  came  from  the  house  and  looked  up 
at  Dan  out  of  its  rheumy  eyes  and  licked  his  hand. 

The  cobbler  still  stood  at  his  door,  fumbling  in  his  fin¬ 
gers  his  cutting-knife,  worn  obliquely  to  the  point,  and 
struggling  to  speak  more  plainly. 

“  The  Whitehaven  packet  leaves  Ramsey  to-night, 
capt’n,”  he  said.  ^ _ 

Dan  waved  his  hand  once  more.  His  heart  sank  .yet 
lower.  Only  by  the  very  dregs  of  humanity,  the  very 
quarry  of  mankind,  and  by  the  dumb  creatures  that  licked 
his  hand,  was  his  fellowship  rewarded.  Thus  had  ha 
wasted  his  fidelity,  and  thrown  his  loyalty  away.  In  a 
day  he  had  become  a  hunted  man.  So  much  for  the 
world’s  gratitude  and  even  the  world’s  pity.  And  yet, 
shunned  or  hunted,  a  mark  for  the  finger  of  shame  or  an 
aim  for  the  hand  of  hate,  he  felt,  as  he  had  felt  before, 
bound  by  strong  ties  to  his  fellow-creatures.  He  was 
about  to  part  from  them  ;  he  was  meeting  them  for  the  last 
time.  Not  even  their  coldest  glance  of  fear  or  suspicion 
made  a  call  on  his  resolution. 

At  every  step  his  impatience  became  more  lively, 
Through  Lezayre,  and  past  Milntown,  he  walked  at  a 
quick  pace.  He  dared  not  run,  lest  his  eagerness  should 
seem  to  betray  him  and  he  should  meet  with  another  such 
obstacle  as  kept  him  back  at  Sulby  Bridge.  At  length  he 
was  walking  through  the  streets  of  Ramsey.  He  noticed 
that  most  of  the  people  who  passed  him  gave  him  a  hur¬ 
ried  and  startled  look,  and  went  quickly  on.  He  reached 
the  court-house  at  last.  Groups  stood  about  the  Saddle 
Inn,  and  the  south  side  of  the  enclosure  within  the  rails 
was  crowded.  The  clock  in  the  church  tower  in  the  mar¬ 
ket-place  beyond  was  striking  nine.  It  was  while  build¬ 
ing  that  square  tower,  twenty  years  before,  that  the  mason 
Looney  had  dropped  to  his  knees  on  the  scaffold  and 
asked  the  blessing  of  the  bishop  as  he  passed.  To  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


$3° 

Bishop's  son  the  clock  of  the  tower  seemed  now  to  be 

Striking  the  hour  of  doom. 

The  people  within  the  rails  of  the  court-yard  fell  aside 
as  Dan  pushed  his  way  through,  and  the  dull  buzz  of  their 
gossip  fell  straightway  to  a  great  silence.  But  those  who 
stood  nearest  the  porch  were  straining  their  necks  to¬ 
ward  the  inside  of  the  court-house  in  an  effort  to  see  and 
hear.  Standing  behind  them  for  an  instant  Dan  heard 
what  was  said  in  whispers  by  those  within  to  those  with¬ 
out,  and  thus  he  learned  what  had  been  done. 

The  Deemster’s  inquest  had  been  going  on  for  an  hour. 
First,  the  landlady  of  the  “  Three  Legs  of  Man  ”  had 
sworn  that,  at  about  three  o’clock  on  Christmas  Eve,  Parson 
Ewan  had  inquired  at  her  house  for  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea,  and  had 
been  directed  to  the  creek  known  sometimes  as  the  Lock¬ 
jaw.  Then,  the  butcher  from  the  shambles  in  the  lane  had 
sworn  that  Parson  Ewan  had  passed  him  walking  toward 
the  creek  ;  and  the  ’longshore  fishermen  who  brought  the 
body  to  Bishop’s  Court  gave  evidence  as  to  when  (ten 
o’clock  on  Christmas  morning)  and  where  (the  coral  ground 
for  herrings,  called  the  Mooragh)  it  came  ashore.  After 
these,  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  sworn  to  following  Parson  Ewan 
within  half  an  hour  of  the  deceased  leaving  Ballamona,  to 
hearing  a  loud  scream  as  he  approached  the  lane  leading 
to  Orris  Head,  and  to  finding  at  the  creek  the  fisher-lad, 
Davy  FayJe,  whose  manner  awakened  strong  suspicion 
when  he  was  questioned  as  to  whether  he  had  seen  Parson 
Ewan  and  his  master,  Mr.  Daniel  Mylrea.  The  wife  of 
one  of  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my-Chree  had  next  been 
called  to  say  that  the  fishing-boat  had  been  at  sea  from 
high-water  on  Christmas  Eve.  The  woman  had  given  her 
evidence  with  obvious  diffidence  and  some  confusion,  re¬ 
peating  and  contradicting  herself,  being  sharply  repri¬ 
manded  by  the  Deemster,  and  finally  breaking  down  into 
a  torrent  of  tears.  When  she  had  been  removed  the 
housekeeper  at  the  old  Ballamona,  an  uncomfortable,  be¬ 
wildered  old  body,  stated  that*  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea  had  not 
been  home  since  the  early  morning  on  the  day  before 
Christmas  Day.  Finally,  the  harbor-master  at  Peel  had 
identified  the  sailcloth  in  which  the  body  had  been  wrapped 
as  a  drift  yawlsail  of  the  Ben-my-Chree,  and  he  had  also 
sworn  that  the  lugger  of  that  name  had  come  into  the 
harbor  at  low-water  the  previous  night,  with  the  men 
Quilleash,  Teare,  Corkell,  Crennell,  and  Davy  Fayle^  as 
well  as  the  owner,  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea,  aboard  of  her* 


T//£  DEEMSTER. 


Without  waiting  to  hear  more,  Dan  made  one  great  call 
On  his  resolution,  and  pushed  his  way  through  the  porch 
into  the.  court-house.  Then  he  realized  that  ihere  was  still 
some  virtue  left  in  humanity.  No  sooner  had  the  people 
in  the  court  become  aware  of  his  presence  among  them, 
than  one  stepped  before  him  as  if  to  conceal  him  from  those 
in  front,  while  another  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and 
elbowed  a  way  out,  beckoning  him  to  follow  as  if  some 
pressing  errand  called  him  away. 

But  Dan's  purpose  was  fixed,  and  no  cover  for  coward¬ 
ice  availed  to  shake  it.  Steadfast  and  silent  he  stood  at 
the  back  of  the  court,  half  hidden  by  the  throng  about 
him,  trying  to  look  on  with  a  cool  countenance,  and  to 
fix  his  attention  on  the  proceedings  of  his  own  trial.  At 
first  he  was  conscious  of  no  more  than  the  obscurity  of 
the  dusky  place  and  a  sort  of  confused  murmur  that  rose 
from  a  table  at  the  farther  end.  For  a  while  he  looked 
stupidly  on,  and  even  trembled  slightly.  But  all  at  once 
he  found  himself  listening  and  seeing  all  that  was  going 
on  before  him. 

The  court-house  was  densely  crowded.  On  tlie  bench 
sat  the  Deemstei,  his  thin,  quick  face  as  sharp  as  a  pen 
within  his  heavy  wig.  Jarvis  Kerruish  and  Quayle,  the 
coroner,  stood  at  a  table  beneath.  Stretched  on  the  top 
of  this  table  was  a  canvas  sail.  Six  men  from  Michael 
sat  to  the  right  as  a  jury.  But  Dan's  eyes  passed  over  all 
these  as  if  scarcely  conscious  of  their  presence,  and  turned 
by  an  instinct  of  which  he  knew  nothing  toward  the  wit¬ 
ness-box.  And  there  Mona  herself  was  now  standing. 
Her  face  was  very  pale  and  drawn  hard  about  the  lips, 
which  were  set  firm,  though  the  nostrils  quivered  visibly. 
She  wore  a  dark  cloak  of  half-conventual  pattern,  with  a 
hood  that  fell  back  from  the  close  hat  that  sat  like  a  nun's 
cap  about  her  smooth  forehead.  Erect  she  stood,  with 
the  fire  of  two  hundred  eager  eyes  upon  her,  but  her  bos¬ 
om  heaved  and  the  fingers  of  her  ungloved  hand  gripped 
nervously  the  rail  in  front  of  her. 

In  an  instant  the  thin  shrill  voice  of  the  Deemster  broke 
on  Dan's  consciousness,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  listening 
to  his  own  trial,  with  Mona  put  up  to  give  evidence  against 
him. 

“  When  did  you  see  your  brother  last  ? 99 

“  On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  yesterday/1 

"  At  what  hour  ? 99 

"At  about  two  o'clock*” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


333 

“  What  passed  between  you  at  that  interview?* 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  question. 

“  Tell  the  jury  if  there  was  any  unpleasantness  between 
you  and  your  brother  at  two  o’clock  the  day  before  yes* 
terday.” 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  silence  was  broken  by 
the  reply,  meekly  spoken,  “  It  is  true  that  he  was  angry.’' 

“  What  was  the  cause  of  his  anger  ?  ” 

Another  pause  and  no  answer.  The  Deemster  repeated 
his  question,  and  still  there  was  no  reply. 

“ Listen;  on  your  answer  to  this  question  the  burden 
of  the  indictment  must  rest.  Circumstance  points  but  too 
plainly  to  a  crime.  It  points  to  one  man  as  perpetrator 
of  that  crime,  and  to  five  other  men  as  accessories  to  it 
But  it  is  necessary  that  the  jury  should  gather  an  idea  of 
the  motive  that  inspired  it.  And  so  I  ask  again,  what  was 
the  difference  between  you  and  your  brother  at  your  in¬ 
terview  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  yesterday  ?  ” 

There  was  a  deep  hush  in  the  court.  A  gloomy,  echo¬ 
less  silence,  like  that  which  goes  before  a  storm,  seemed 
to  brood  over  the  place.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  wit¬ 
ness-box. 

“  Answer,”  said  the  Deemster,  with  head  aslant.  “  I  ask 
for  an  answer — I  demand  it.” 

Then  the  witness  lifted  up  her  great,  soft,  liquid  eyes  to 
the  Deemster’s  face,  and  spoke:  “Is  it  the  judge  or  the 
father  that  demands  an  answer  ?”  she  said. 

“The  judge,  the  judge,”  the  Deemster  replied  with  em¬ 
phasis,  “we  know  of  no  father  here.” 

At  that  the  burden  that  had  rested  on  Mona’s  quivering 
face  seemed  to  lift  away.  “Then,  if  it  is  the  judge  that 
asks  the  question,  I  will  not  answer  it.” 

The  Deemster  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  there  was  a 
low  rumble  among  the  people  in  the  court.  Dan  found 
his  breath  coming  audibly  from  his  throat,  his  finger-nails 
digging  trenches  in  his  palms,  and  his  teeth  set  so  hard  on 
his  lips  that  both  teeth  and  lips  were  bleeding. 

After  a  moment’s  silence  the  Deemster  spoke  again,  but 
more  softly  than  before,  and  in  a  tone  of  suavity. 

“  If  the  judge  has  no  power  with  you,  make  answer  to 
the  father,”  and  he  repeated  his  question. 

Amid  silence  that  was  painful  Mona  said,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  “  It  is  not  in  a  court  of  justice  that  a  father-should 
expect  an  answer  to  a  question  like  that.” 

Then  the  Deemster  lost  all  self-control,  and  shouted  in 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


23J 

bis  shrill  treble  that,  whether  as  father  or  judge,  the  wit¬ 
ness’s  answer  he  should  have  ;  that  on  that  answer  the 
guilty  man  should  yet  be  indicted,  and  that  even  as  it 
would  be  damning  to  that  man  so  it  should  hang  him. 

The  spectators  held  their  breath  at  the  Deemster’s  words 
and  looked  aghast  at  the  livid  face  on  the  bench.  They 
were  accustomed  to  the  Deemster’s  fits  of  rage,  but  such  an 
outbreak  of  wrath  had  never  before  been  witnessed.  The 
gloomy  silence  was  unbroken  for  a  moment,  and  then  there 
came  the  sound  of  the  suppressed  weeping  of  the  witness. 

“  Stop  that  noise  !  ”  said  the  Deemster.  “  We  know  for 
whom  you  shed  your  tears.  But  you  shall  yet  do  more 
than  cry  for  the  man.  If  a  word  of  yours  can  send  him  to 
the  gallows,  that  word  shall  yet  be  spoken.” 

Dan  saw  and  heard  all.  The  dark  place,  the  judge,  the 
jury,  the  silent  throng,  seemed  to  swim  about  him.  For  a 
moment  he  struggled  with  himself,  scarcely  able  to  con¬ 
trol  the  impulse  to  push  through  and  tear  the  Deemster 
from  his  seat.  At  the  next  instant,  with  complete  self- 
possession  and  strong  hold  of  his  passions,  he  had  parted 
the  people  in  front  of  him,  and  was  making  his  way  to  the 
table  beneath  the  bench.  Dense  as  the  crowd  was  it 
seemed  to  open  of  itself  before  him,  and  only  the  low  rum¬ 
ble  of  many  subdued  voices  floated  faintly  in  his  ear.  He 
was  conscious  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  but  most  of  all 
that  Mona  was  watching  Him  with  looks  of  pain  and  fear. 

He  never  felt  stronger  than  at  that  moment.  Long 
enough  he  had  hesitated,  and  too  often  he  had  been  held 
back,  but  now  his  time  was  come.  He  stopped  in  front 
of  the  table,  and  said  in  a  full  clear  voice,  “  I  am  here  to 
surrender — I  am  guilty.” 

The  Deemster  looked  down  in  bewilderment  ;  but  the 
coroner,  recovering  quickly  from  his  first  amazement, 
bustled  up  with  the  air  of  a  constable  making  a  capture, 
and  put  the  fetters  on  Dan’s  wrists. 

What  happened  next  was  never  afterward  rightly  known 
to  any  of  the  astonished  spectators.  The  Deemster  asked 
the  jury  for  their  verdict,  and  immediately  afterward  he 
called  on  the  clerk  to  prepare  the  indictment. 

“  Is  it  to  be  for  this  man  only,  or  for  all  six  ?  ”  the  clerk 
asked. 

“  All  six,”  the  Deemster  answered. 

Then  the  prisoner  spoke  again.  “  Deemster,”  he  said, 
“the  other  men  are  innocent,” 

“Where  are  they?” 


*34 


THU  VUUMSTUK. 


“  I  do  not  know.*1 

“  If  innocent,  why  are  they  in  hiding  ? 99 

<l  I  tell  you,  sir,  they  are  innocent.  Their  only  fault  ta 
that  they  have  tried  to  be  loyal  to  me.M 

€i  Were  they  with  you  when  the  body  was  buried  ?  ” 

Dan  made  no  answer. 

4i  Did  they  bury  it  f" 

Still  no  answer.  The  Deemsf^r  turned  to  the  clerk, 
“The  six.” 

“Deemster,”  Dan  said,  with  stubborn  resolution,  “why 
should  I  tell  you  what  is  not  true  ?  I  have  come  here 
when,  like  the  men  themselves,  I  might  have  kept  away.” 

“You  have  come  here,  prisoner,  when  the  hard  of  the 
law  was  upon  you,  when  its  vengeance  was  encircling  you, 
entrapping  you,  when  it  was  useless  to  hold  out  longer  ; 
you  have  come  here  thinking  to  lessen  your  punishment 
by  your  surrender.  But  you  have  been  mistaken.  A 
surrender  extorted  when  capture  is  certain,  like  a  confes¬ 
sion  made  when  crime  cannot  be  denied,  has  never  yet 
been  allowed  to  lessen  the  punishment  of  the  guilty.  Nor 
shall  it  lessen  it  now.” 

Then  as  the  Deemster  rose  aery  rang  through  the  court. 
It  was  such  a  cry  out  of  a  great  heart  ds  tells  a  whole 
story  to  a  multitude.  In  a  moment  the  people  saw  and 
knew  all.  They  looked  at  the  two  who  stood  before  them, 
Dan  and  Mona,  the  prisoner  and  the  witness,  with  eyes 
that  filled,  and  from  their  dry  throats  there  rose  a  deep 
groan  from  their  midst. 

“  I  tell  you,  Deemster,  it  is  false,  and  the  men  are  inno¬ 
cent,”  said  Dan. 

The  clerk  was  seen  to  hand  a  document  to  the  Deem¬ 
ster,  who  took  a  pen  and  signed  it. 

“  The  accused  stands  committed  for  trial  at  the  Court 
of  General  Gaol  Delivery.” 

At  the  next  moment  the  Deemster  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

The  prison  for  felons  awaiting  trial  in  the  civil  courts 
was  in  Castle  Rushen,  at  Castletown,  but  Dan  Mylrea  was 
not  taken  to  it.  There  had  been  a  general  rising  in  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*35 


south  of  the  island  on  the  introduction  of  a  coinage  of 
copper  money,  and  so  many  of  the  rioters  had  been  ar¬ 
rested  and  committed  for  trial,  without  bail,  at  the  Court 
of  General  Gaol  Delivery,  that  the  prison  at  Castle  Rush- 
en  was  full  to  overflowing.  Twenty  men  had  guarded  the 
place  day  and  night,  being  relieved  every  twenty-four 
hours  by  as  many  more  from  each  parish  in  rotation,  some 
of  them  the  kith  and  kin  of  the  men  imprisoned,  and  all 
summoned  to  Castletown  in  the  morning  by  the  ancient 
mode  of  fixing  a  wooden  cross  over  their  doors  at  night. 

Owing  to  this  circumstance  the  Deemster  made  the  ex¬ 
traordinary  blunder  of  ordering  his  coroner  to  remove 
Dan  to  the  prison  beneath  the  ruined  castle  at  Peeltown. 
Now,  the  prison  on  St.  Patrick's  islet  had  for  centuries 
been  under  the  control  of  the  Spiritual  Courts,  and  was 
still  available  for  use  in  the  execution  of  the  ecclesiastical 
censures.  The  jailer  was  the  parish  sumner,  and  the  sole 
governor  and  director  was  the  Bishop  himself.  All  this 
the  Deemster  knew  full  well,  and  partly  in  defiance  of  his 
brother's  authority,  partly  in  contempt  of  it,  but  mainly 
in  bitter  disdain  of  his  utter  helplessness,  where  his  son's 
guilt  was  manifest  and  confessed,  he  arrogated  the  right, 
without  sanction  from  the  spiritual  powers,  of  committing 
Dan  to  the  Church  prison,  the  civil  prison  being  full. 

It  was  a  foul  and  loathsome  dungeon,  and  never  but 
once  had  Bishop  Mylrea  been  known  to  use  it  Dark, 
small,  damp,  entered  by  a  score  of  narrow  steps,  down  un¬ 
der  the  vaults  on  the  floor  of  the  chapel,  over  the  long 
runnels  made  in  the  rock  by  the  sea,  it  was  as  vile  a  hole  as 
the  tyranny  of  the  Church  ever  turned  into  a  jail  for  the 
punishment  of  those  who  resisted  its  authority. 

The  sumner  in  charge  was  old  Paton  Gorry,  of  Kirk 
Patrick,  a  feeble  soul  with  a  vast  respect  for  authority, 
and  no  powers  of  nice  distinction  between  those  who  were 
placed  above  him.  When  he  received  the  Deemster’s  war¬ 
rant  for  Dan’s  committal,  he  did  not  doubt  its  validity ; 
and  when  Quayle,  the  coroner,  for  his  own  share  ordered 
that  the  prisoner  should  be  kept  in  the  close  confinement 
of  the  dungeon*  he  acquiesced  without  question. 

If  Dan’s  humiliation  down  to  this  moment  had  not  been 
gall  and  wormwood  to  his  proud  and  stubborn  spirit  the 
fault  did  not  lie  at  the  door  of  Quayle  the  Gyke.  Every 
indignity  that  an  unwilling  prisoner  could  have  been  sub¬ 
jected  to  Dan  underwent.  From  the  moment  of  leaving 
the  court-house  at  Ramsey,  Dan  was  pushed  and  huddled 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


236 

an 5  imperiously  commanded  with  such  an  abundant  lack 
of  need  and  reason  that  at  length  the  people  who  crowded 
the  streets  or  looked  from  their  windows — the  same  peo¬ 
ple,  many  of  them,  who  had  shrunk  from  Dan  as  he  en¬ 
tered  the  town — shouted  at  the  coroner  and  groaned  at 
him.  But  Dan  himself,  who  had  never  before  accepted  a 
blow  from  any  man  without  returning  it,  was  seen  to  walk 
tamely  by  the  coroner’s  side,  towering  above  him  in  great 
stature,  but  taking  his  rough  handling  like  a  child  at  his 
knees. 

At  the  door  of  the  prison  where  Quayle’s  function  ended 
that  of  the  sumner  began,  and  old  Gorry  was  a  man  of 
anothc  r  mould.  Twenty  times  he  had  taken  charge  of  per¬ 
sons  imprisoned  six  days  for  incontinence,  and  once  he  had 
held  the  governor’s  wife  twelve  hours  for  slander,  and  once 
again  a  fighting  clergyman  seven  days  for  heresies  in  look¬ 
ing  toward  Rome,  but  never  before  had  he  put  man,  wom¬ 
an,  or  child  into  the  pestilential  hole  under  the  floor  of 
the  old  chapel.  Dan  he  remembered  since  the  Bishop’s 
son  was  a  boy  in  corduroys,  and  when  the  rusty  key  of  the 
dungeon  turned  on  him  with  a  growl  in  its  wards,  and  old 
Gorry  went  shivering  to  the  guard-room  above  and  kin¬ 
dled  himself  a  fire  there  and  sat  and  smoked,  the  good  man 
under  his  rough  surtout  got  the  better  of  the  bad  jaiier. 
Then  down  he  went  again,  and  with  a  certain  shame-faced- 
ness,  some  half-comic,  half-pathetic  efforts  of  professional 
reserve,  he  said  he  wouldn’t  object,  not  he,  if  Dan  had  a 
mind  to  come  up  and  warm  himself.  But  Dan  declined 
with  words  of  cold  thanks. 

“  No,  Gorry,”  he  said,  “  I  don’t  know  that  I  feel  the 
cold.” 

“  Oh,  all  right,  all  right,  sit  ye  there,  sit  ye  there,”  said 
Gorry.  He  whipped  about  with  as  much  of  largeness  as 
he  could  simulate,  rattled  his  keys  as  he  went  back,  and 
even  hummed  a  tune  as  he  climbed  the  narrow  stairs. 
But,  warming  itself  at  the  fire,  the  poor  human  nature  in 
the  old  man’s  breast  began  to  tear  him  pitilessly.  He 
could  get  no  peace  for  memories  that  would  arise  of  the 
days  when  Dan  plagued  him  sorely,  the  sad  little,  happy 
dog.  Then  up  he  rose  again,  and  down  he  went  to  the 
dungeon  once  more. 

“  I  respects  the  ould  Bishop,”  he  said,  just  by  way  of 
preliminary  apology  and  to  help  him  to  carry  off  his  in¬ 
tention,  “  and  if  it  be  so  that  a  man  has  done  wrong  I  don’t 
see— I  don’t  see*.”  he  stammered,  “it  isa’t  aatheral  that  he 


\ 


THE  DEEMSTER .  837 

should  be  starved  alive  anyway,  and  a  cold  winter's  night 
too.” 

“  It's  no  more  than  I  deserve,”  Dan  mumbled  ;  and  at 
that  word  old  Gorry  whipped  about  as  before,  repeating 
loftily,  “  Sit  ye  there,  sit  ye  there.” 

It  was  not  for  him  to  cringe  and  sue  to  a  "prisoner  to 
come  up  out  of  that  foul  hole,  och  !  no  ;  and  the  Bishop's 
sumner  inflated  his  choking  chest  and  went  back  for  an¬ 
other  pipe.  But  half  an  hour  later  the  night  had  closed 
*n,  and  old  Gorry,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  was  at  the 
door  of  Dan's  prison  again. 

,  “ To  tell  the  truth,  sir,”  he  muttered,  “I  can't  get  lave 
for  a  wink  of  sleep  up  yonder,  and  if  you  don't  come  up 
to  the  fire  I  wouldn’t  trust  but  I’ll  be  forced  to  stay  down 
here  in  the  cold  myself.” 

Before  Dan  could  make  answer  there  came  a  loud 
knocking  from  overhead.  In  another  moment  the  key  of 
the  door  had  turned  in  its  lock  from  without,  and  Gorry's 
uncertain  footfall  was  retreating  on  the  steps. 

When  Dan  had  first  been  left  alone  in  his  dark  cell  he 
had  cast  himself  down  on  the  broad  slab  cut  from  the 
rock,  which  was  his  only  seat  and  bed.  His  suspense  was 
over  ;  the  weight  of  uncertainty  was  lifted  from  his  brain ; 
and  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  he  had  done  well.  He 
thought  of  Ewan  now  with  other  feelings  than  before — 
of  his  uprightness,  his  tenderness,  his  brotherly  affection, 
his  frequent  intercession,  and  no  less  frequentself-sacrifice. 
Then  he  thought  of  his  own  headlong  folly,  his  blank  in¬ 
sensitiveness,  his  cold  ingratitude,  and,  last  of  all,  of  his 
blundering  passion  and  mad  wrath.  All  else  on  both  sides 
was  blotted  from  his  memory  in  that  hour  of  dark  search¬ 
ing.  Alone  with  his  crime — tortured  no  more  by  blind 
hopes  of  escaping  its  penalty,  or  dread  misgivings  as  to 
the  measure  of  his  guilt — -his  heart  went  out  to  the  true 
friend  whose  life  he  had  taken  with  a  great  dumb  yearning 
and  a  bitter  remorse.  No  cruel  voice  whispered  now  in 
palliation  of  his  offence  that  it  had  not  been  murder,  but 
the  accident  of  self-defence.  He  had  proposed  the  fight  that 
ended  with  Ewan's  death,  and,  when  Ewan  would  have 
abandoned  rt,  he,  on  his  part,  would  hear  of  no  truce. 
Murder  it  was  ;  and,  bad  as  murder  is  at  the  best,  this 
murder  had  been,  of  all  murders,  most  base  and  foul. 
Yes,  he  had  done  well.  Here  alone  could  he  know  one 
hour  of  respite  from  terrible  thoughts.  This  dark  vault 
Was  his  only  resting-place  until  he  came  to  lie  in  the  latB 


2j3 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


resting-place  of  all.  There  could  be  no  going  back.  Life 
was  forever  closed  against  him.  He  had  spilled  the  blood 
of  the  man  who  had  loved  him  with  more  than  a  brother’s 
love,  and  to  whom  his  own  soul  had  been  grappled  with 
hooks  of  steel.  It  was  enough,  and  the  sick  certainty  of 
the  doom  before  him  was  easiest  to  bear. 

It  was  with  thoughts  like  these  that  Dan  had  spent  his 
first  hours  in  prison,  and  when  old  Gorry  had  interrupted 
them  time  after  time  with  poor  little  troubles  about  the 
freezing  cold  of  the  pestilential  place  he  hardly  saw  through 
the  old  man’s  simulation  into  the  tender  bit  of  human  nat¬ 
ure  that  lay  behind  it. 

A  few  minutes  after  Gorry  had  left  the  cell,  in  answer  to 
the  loud  knocking  that  had  echoed  through  the  empty 
chambers  overhead,  Dan  could  hear  that  he  was  returning 
to  it,  halting  slowly  down  the  steps  with  many  a  pause,  and 
mumbling  remarks  meantime,  as  if  lighting  some  one  who 
came  after  him. 

“  Yes,  my  lord,  it’s  dark,  very  dark.  I’ll  set  the  lantern 
here,  my  lord,  and  turn  the  key.” 

In  another  moment  old  Gorry  was  at  Dan’s  side,  saying, 
in  a  fearful  undertone,  “Lord  a  massy!  It’s  the  Bishop 
hisself.  I  lied  to  him  mortal,  so  I  did — but  no  use — I  said 
you  were  sleeping,  but  no  good  at  all  at  all.  He  wouldn’t 
take  rest  without  putting  a  sight  on  you.  Here  he  is — 
Come  in,  my  lord.” 

Almost  before  Dan’s  mind,  distraught  by  other  troubles, 
had  time  to  grasp  what  Gorry  said,  the  old  jailer  had 
clapped  his  lantern  on  the  floor  of  the  cell,  and  had  gone 
from  it,  and  Dan  was  alone  with  his  father. 

“  Dan,  are  you  awake  ?  ”  the  Bishop  asked,  in  a  low, 
eager  tone.  His  eyes  were  not  yet  familiar  with  the  half- 
light  of  the  dark  place,  and  he  could  not  see  his  son.  But 
Dan  saw  his  father  only  too  plainly,  and  one  glance  at  him 
in  that  first  instant  of  recovered  consciousness  went  far  to 
banish  as  an  empty  sophism  the  soothing  assurance  he 
had  lately  nursed  at  his  heart  that  in  what  he  had  done  he 
had  done  well. 

The  Bishop  was  a  changed  and  shattered  man.  His 
very  stature  seemed  to  have  shrunk,  and  his  Jovian  white 
head  was  dipped  into  his  breast.  His  great  calm  front 
was  gone,  and  in  the  feeble  light  of  the  lantern  on  the 
floor  his  eyes  were  altered  and  his  face  seemed  to  be  cut 
deep  with  lines  of  fear  and  even  of  cunning.  His  irreso¬ 
lute  mouth  was  half-open^  as  if  it  had  only  just  emitted  a 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


*39 


startled  cry.  In  one  of  his  hands  he  held  a  small  parcel 
bound  tightly  with  a  broad  strap,  and  the  other  hand  wan- 
3ered  nervously  in  the  air  before  him. 

Dan  saw  everything  in  an  instant.  This,  then,  was  the 
first-fruits  of  that  day’s  work.  He  rose  from  his  seat. 

“  Father !  ”  he  cried,  in  a  faint,  tremulous  voice. 

“  My  son !  ”  the  Bishop  answered,  and  for  some  swift  mo¬ 
ments  thereafter  the  past  that  had  been  very  bitter  to  both 
was  remembered  no  more  by  either. 

But  the  sweet  oblivion  was  cruelly  brief.  “Wait,”  the 
Bishop  whispered,  “are  we  alone?”  And  with  that  the 
once  stately  man  of  God  crept  on  tip-toe  like  a  cat  to  the 
door  of  the  cell,  and  put  his  head  to  it  and  listened. 

“Art  thou  there,  Paton  Gorry  ?”  he  asked,  feebly  simu¬ 
lating  his  accustomed  tone  of  quiet  authority. 

Old  Gorry  answered  from  the  other  side  of  the  door 
that  he  was  there,  that  he  was  sitting  on  the  steps,  that  he 
was  not  sleeping,  but  waiting  my  lord’s  return. 

The  Bishop  crept  back  to  Dan’s  side,  with  the  same  cat¬ 
like  step  as  before.  “  You  are  safe,  my  son,”  he  whispered 
in  his  low,  eager  tone.  “  You  shall  leave  this  place.  It  is 
my  prison,  and  you  shall  go  free.” 

Dan  had  watched  his  father’s  movements  with  a  sicken¬ 
ing  sense. 

“  Then  you  do  not  know  that  I  surrendered  ?  ”  he  said, 
faintly. 

“Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes,  I  know  it.  But  that  was  when  your 
arrest  was  certain.  But  now — listen.” 

Dan  felt  as  if  his  father  had  struck  him  across  the  face. 
“  That  was  what  the  Deemster  said,”  he  began  ;  “  but  it  is 
wrong.” 

“Listen— they  have  nothing  against  you.  I  know  alL 
They  cannot  convict  you  save  on  your  own  confession. 
And  why  should  you  confess  ?  ” 

“  Why?” 

“Don’t  speak — don’t  explain— I  must  not  hear  you— 
listen  !  ”  and  the  old  man  put  one  arm  on  his  son’s  shoul¬ 
der  and  his  mouth  to  his  ear.  “  There  is  only  one  bit  of 
tangible  evidence  against  you,  and  it  is  here  ;  look  !  ”  and 
lie  lifted  before  Dan’s  face  the  parcel  he  carried  in  his 
other  trembling  hand.  Then  down  he  went  on  one  knee, 
put  the  parcel  on  the  floor,  and  unclasped  the  strap.  The 
parcel  fell  open.  It  contained  a  coat,  a  hat,  two  militia 
daggers,  and  a  large  heavy  stone. 

44  Look !  ”  the  Bishop  whispered  again,  in  a  note  of  tri* 


240 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


umph,  and  as  he  spoke  a  grin  of  delight  was  struck  out  o i 
his  saintly  old  face. 

Dan  shuddered  at  the  sight. 

“  Where  did  you  get  them  ?"  he  asked. 

The  Bishop  gave  a  little  grating  laugh. 

“  They  were  brought  me  by  some  of  my  good  people,” 
he  answered.  “  Oh,  yes,  good  people,  all  of  them  ;  and  they 
will  not  tell.  Oh,  no,  they  have  promised  me  to  be  silent." 

“  Promised  you  ?  " 

44  Yes — listen  again.  Last  night — it  was  dark,  I  think  it 
must  have  been  past  midnight — I  went  to  all  their  houses. 
They  were  in  bed,  but  I  knocked,  and  they  came  down  to 
me.  Yes,  they  gave  me  their  word — on  the  Book  they 
gave  it.  Good  people,  all — Jabez  the  tailor,  Stean  the  cob¬ 
bler,  Juan  of  Ballacry,  and  Thormod  in  the  Street.  I  re¬ 
member  every  man  of  them.” 

“  Father,  do  you  say  you  went  to  these  people — these, 
the  very  riff-raff  of  the  island — you  went  to  them — you, 
and  at  midnight — and  begged  them - ” 

44  Hush,  it  is  nothing.  Why  not  ?  But  this  is  impor¬ 
tant."  The  Bishop,  who  was  still  on  his  knee,  was  buck¬ 
ling  up  the  parcel  again.  “You  can  sink  it  in  the  sea. 
Did  you  mark  the  stone  ?  That  will  carry  it  to  the  bot¬ 
tom.  And  when  you  are  in  the  boat  it  will  be  easy  to 
drop  everything  overboard." 

“ The  boat?" 

44  Ah  !  have  I  not  told  you  ?  Thormod  Mylechreest — 
you  remember  him  ?  A  good  man,  Thormod — a  tender 
heart,  too,  and  wronged  by  his  father,  poor  misguided 
man.  Well,  Mylechreest  has  promised — I  have  just  left 
him — to  come  down  to  the  harbor  at  nine  to-night,  and 
take  the  fishing-smack,  the  Ben-my-Chree,  and  bring  her 
round  to  the  west  coast  of  St.  Patrick’s  Islet,  and  cast  an¬ 
chor  there,  and  then  come  ashore  in  the  boat,  and  wait 
for  you." 

41  Wait  for  me,  father  ?  " 

44  Yes  ;  for  this  prison  is  mine,  and  I  shall  open  its  doors 
to  whomsoever  it  pleases  me  to  liberate.  Look  !  ” 

The  Bishop  rose  to  his  full  height,  threw  back  his  head, 
and  with  a  feeble  show  of  his  wonted  dignity  strode  to 
the  door  of  the  cell  and  cried,  in  a  poor,  stifled  echo  of 
his  accustomed  strong  tone,  “  Paton  Gorry,  open  thou  this 
door." 

Old  Gorry  answered  from  without,  and  presently  the 
do qi  '  was  opened* 


THE  DERMSTMJL 


«' Wider/* 

The  door  was  thrown  wide. 

“  Now,  give  me  the  keys,  Paton  Gorry,”  said  th#  Bisheft 
with  the  same  assumption  of  authority. 

Old  Gorry  handed  his  keys  to  the  Bishop. 

“  And  get  thee  home,  and  stay  there.” 

Old  Gorry  touched  his  cap  and  went  up  the  steps. 

Then,  with  a  bankrupt  smile  of  sorry  triumph,  the 
Bishop  turned  to  his  son.  “You  see,”  he  said,  “you  are 
free.  Let  me  look — what  is  the  hour  ?  ”  He  fumbled  for 
his  watch.  “Ah,  I  had  forgotten.  I  paid  my  watch  away 
to  poor  Patrick  Looney.  No  matter.  At  nine  by  the 
clock  Mylechreest  will  come  for  you,  and  you  will  go  to 
your  boat  and  set  sail  for  Scotland,  or  England,  or  Ire¬ 
land,  or — or ” 

Dan  could  bear  up  no  longer.  His  heart  was  choking. 
“Father,  father,  my  father,  what  are  you  saying  ?”  he 
cried. 

\  “  I  am  saying  that  you  are  free  to  leave  this  place.” 

“  I  will  not  go — I  cannot  go.” 

The  Bishop  fetched  a  long  breath  and  paused  for  a  mo¬ 
ment.  He  put  one  trembling  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if 
to  steady  his  reeling  and  heated  brain. 

“You  cannot  stay,”  he  said.  “  Hark  !  do  you  hear  the 
wind  how  it  moans  ?  Or  is  it  the  sea  that  beats  on  the 
rock  outside?  And  over  our  heads  are  the  dead  of  ten 
generations.” 

But  Dan  was  suffocating  with  shame  ;  the  desolation 
around,  the  death  that  was  lying  silent  above,  and  the 
mother  of  sorrows  that  was  wailing  beneath  had  no  terrors 
left  for  him. 

“Father,  my  father,”  he  cried  again,  “think  what  you 
ask  me  to  do.  Only  think  of  it.  You  ask  me  to  allow  you 
to  buy  the  silence  of  the  meanest  hinds  alive.  And  at 
what  a  price  ?  At  the  price  of  the  influence,  the  esteem, 
the  love,  and  the  reverence  that  you  have  won  by  the 
labor  of  twenty  years.  And  to  what  end  ?  To  the  end 
that  I— I ” 

“  To  the  end  that  you  may  live,  my  son.  Remember 

what  your  father's  love  has  been  to  you.  No,  not  that— 

but  th|nk  what  it  must  have  been  to  him.  Your  father 

would  know  you  were  alive.  It  is  true  he  would  never, 

never  see  you.  Yes,  we  should  always  be  apart — you 

there,  and  I  here — and  I  should  take  your  hand  and  see 

your  face  no  more.  But  you  would  be  alive— -p  ’ 

% 


243 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


“  Father,  do  you  call  it  living  r  Think  if  I  could  bear  it 
Suppose  I  escaped — suppose  I  were  safe  in  some  place  far 
away — Australia,  America,  anywhere  out  of  the  reach  of 
shame  and  death — suppose  I  were  well,  ay,  and  prosper¬ 
ous  as  the  world  goes — what  then  ?” 

44  Then  I  should  be  content,  my  son.  Yes,  content,  and 
thanking  God.” 

44  And  I  should  be  the  most  wretched  of  men.  Only 
think  of  it,  and  picture  me  there.  I  should  know,  though 
there  were  none  to  tell  me,  I  should  remember  it  as  often 
as  the  sun  rose  above  me,  that  at  home,  thousands  of 
miles  away,  my  poor  father,  the  righteous  Bishop  that 
once  was,  the  leader  cl  his  people  and  their  good  father, 
was  the  slave  of  the  lowest  offal  of  them  all,  powerless  to  ] 
raise  his  hand  for  the  hands  that  were  held  over  him,  dumb 
to  reprove  for  the  evil  tongues  that  threatened  to  speak  ill. 
And,  as  often  as  night  came  and  I  tried  to  sleep,  I  should 
see  him  there  growing  old,  very  old,  and,  maybe,  very 
feeble,  and  wanting  an  arm  to  lean  on,  and  good  people  to 
honor  him  and  to  make  him  forget — yes,  forget  the  mad 
shipwreck  of  his  son's  life,  but  with  eyes  that  could  not  lift 
themselves  from  the  earth  for  secret  shame,  tortured  by 
fears  of  dishonor,  self-tormented  and  degraded  before  the 
face  of  his  God.  No,  no,  no,  I  cannot  take  such  sacrifice." 

The  Bishop  had  drawn  nearer  to  Dan  and  tried  to  take 
his  hand.  When  Dan  was  silent  he  did  not  speak  at  once, 
and  when  Dan  sat  on  his  stone  seat  he  sat  beside  him, 

Eentle  as  a  child,  and  very  meek  and  quiet,  and  felt  foi 
is  hand  again,  and  held  it,  though  Dan  would  have  drawn 
it  away.  Then,  as  they  sat  together,  nearer  the  old  Bishop 
crept,  nearer  and  yet  nearer,  until  one  of  his  trembling 
arms  encircled  Dan's  neck  and  the  dear  head  was  drawn 
down  to  his  swelling,  throbbing  breast,  as  if  it  were  a 
child’s  head  still,  and  it  was  a  father's  part  to  comfort  it 
and  to  soothe  away  its  sorrows. 

44  Then  we  will  go  together,”  he  said,  after  a  time,  in  a 
faint  forlornness  of  voice,  44  to  the  utmost  reaches  of  the 
earth,  leaving  all  behind  us,  and  thinking  no  more  of  the 

East.  Yes,  we  will  go  together,”  he  said,  very  quietly,  and 
e  rose  to  his  feet,  still  holding  Dan's  hand. 

Dan  was  suffocating  with  shame.  44  Father,”  he  said, 

44 1  see  all  now ;  you  think  me  innocent,  and  so  you  would 
leave  everything  for  my  sake.  But  I  am  a  guilty  man.”  j 
44  Hush  !  you  shall  not  say  that.  Don't  tell  me  that 
No  one  shall  tell  me  that.  1  will  not  hear  itT 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*43 


The  hot  eagerness  of  the  Bishop’s  refusal  to  hear  with 
his  ears  the  story  of  his  son’s  guilt  told  Dan  but  too  surely 
that  he  had  already  heard  it  with  his  heart. 

“  Father,  no  one  would  need  to  tell  you.  You  would 
find  it  out  for  yourself.  And  think  of  that  awful  unde¬ 
ceiving  !  You  would  take  your  son’s  part  against  the 
world,  believing  in  him,  but  you  would  read  his  secret  bit 
by  bit,  day  by  day.  His  crime  would  steal  in  between 
you  like  a  spectre,  it  would  separate  you  hour  by  hour, 
until  at  length  you  would  be  forever  apart.  And  that  end 
would  be  the  worst  end  of  all  No,  it  cannot  be.  Justice 
is  -against  it ;  love  is  against  it.  And  God,  I  think  God 
must  be  against  it,  too.” 

“  God !  ” 

Dan  did  not  hear.  “Yes,  I  am  guilty,”  he  went  on. 
“  I  have  killed  the  man  who  loved  me  a§  his  own  soul. 
He  would  have  given  his  life  for  my  life,  even  as  he  gave 
his  honor  for  my  honor.  And  I  slew  him.  Ewan  !  Ewan  ! 
my  brother,  my  brother  !  ”  he  cried,  and  where  he  sat  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  Bishop  stood  over  his  son  with  the  same  gentle 
calm  that  had  come  upon  him  in  the  cell,  and  with  not 
one  breath  of  the  restless  fever  with  which  he  entered  it. 
Once  again  he  tried  to  take  Dan’s  hand  and  to  hold  it, 
and  to  meet  with  his  own  full  orbs  Dan’s  swimming  eyes. 

“Yes,  father,  it  is  right  that  I  should  die,  and  it  is  nec¬ 
essary.  Perhaps  God  will  taker  *my  death  as  an  atone¬ 
ment - ” 

“  Atonement ! 90  -A 

®Or,  if  there  is  no  atonement,  there  is  only  hell  for  my 
crime,  and  before  God  I  am  guilty.” 

“  Before  God  !  ” 

The  Bishop  echoed  Dan’s  words  in  a  dull,  mechanical 
underbreath,  and  stood  a  long  time  silent  while  Dan 
poured  forth  his  bitter  remorse.  Then  he  said,  speaking 
with  something  of  his  owq  courageous  calm  of  voice,  from 
something  like  his  own  pure  face,  and  with  some  of  the 
upright  wrinkles  of  his  high  forehead  smoothed  away : 
“Dan,  I  will  go  home  and  think.  I  seem  to  be  awakening 
from  a  dreadful  nightmare  in  a  world  where  no  God  is, 
and  no  light  reigns,  but  all  is  dark.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
Dan,  I  fear  my  faith  is  not  what  it  was  or  should  be.  I 
thought  I  knew  God’s  ways  with  his  people,  and  then  it 
seemed  as  if,  after  all  these  years;  I  had  not  known  him 
But  I  am  only  a  poor  priest,  and  a  very  weak  old  man. 


244 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Good-night,  my  son,  I  will  go  home  and  think.  I  am  like 
one  who  runs  to  save  a  child  from  a  great  peril  and  finds  a 
man  stronger  than  himself  and  braver — one  who  looks  on 
death  face  to  face  and  quails  not.  Good-night,  Dan,  I 
will  go  home  and  pray.” 

And  so  he  went  his  way,  the  man  of  God  in  his  weak¬ 
ness.  He  left  his  son  on  the  stone  seat,  with  covered  face, 
the  lantern,  and  the  parcel  on  the  floor,  and  the  door  of 
the  cell  wide  open.  The  keys  he  carried  half-consciously 
in  his  hand.  He  stumbled  along  in  the  darkness  down  the 
winding  steps,  hewn  from  the  rock,  to  the  boat  at  the  little 
wooden  jetty,  where  a  boatman  sat  awaiting  him.  The 
night  was  very  dark,  and  the  sea’s  loud  moan  and  its  dank 
salt  breath  were  in  the  air.  He  did  not  see,  he  did  not 
hear,  he  did  not  feel.  But  there  was  one  in  that  lonesome 
place  who  saw  his  dark  figure  as  he  passed.  “Who  is 
there  ?”  said  an  eager  voice,  as  he  went  through  the  deep 
portcullis  and  out  at  the  old  notched  and  barred  door  ajar. 
But  the  Bishop  neither  answered  nor  heard. 

At  the  house  in  Castle  Street,  near  to  the  quay,  he 
stopped  and  knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  the  old 
sumner. 

“  I’ve  brought  you  the  keys,  Paton  Gorry.  Go  back  to 
your  charge.” 

“  Did  you  lock  the  doors,  my  lord  ?  ” 

“Yes — no,  no — I  must  have  forgotten.  I  fear  my 
mind — but  it  is  of  no  moment.  Go  back,  Paton — it  will  be 
enough.” 

“I’ll  go,  my  lord,”  sa Ltd  the  sumner. 

He  went  back,  but  others  had  been  there  before  himfc- 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

DIVINATION. 

Well  satisfied  with  this  day’s  work  the  Deemster  drove 
from  the  Ramsey  court-house  to  mid-day  dinner  with  his 
father-in-law,  the  old  archdeacon,  taking  Jarvis  Kerruish 
with  him.  Mona  he  sent  home  in  the  lumbering  car 
driven  by  the  coroner.  It  suited  well  with  the  girl’s 
troubled  mind  to  be  alone,  and  when  night  fell  in  and  the 
Deemster  had  not  returned,  the  grim  gloom  of  the  lonely 
house  on  Slieu  Dhoo  brought  her  no  terrors.  But  to- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*45 

ward  nine  o’clock  the  gaunt  silence  of  the  place  was 
broken,  and  from  that  time  until  long  after  midnight  Bal- 
Jamona  was  a  scene  of  noise  and  confusion. 

First  came  blind  Kerry,  talking  loudly  along  the  pas¬ 
sages,  wringing  her  hands,  and  crying,  “  Aw,  dear  ?  oh, 
mam  !  oh,  goodness  me  !  ” 

Mastha  Dan  was  no  longer  in  prison,  he  had  been  kid* 
napped  ;  four  men  and  a  boy  had  taken  him  by  main 
force  ;  bound  hand  and  foot  he  had  been  carried  through 
the  mountains  to  a  lonely  place  ;  and  there  at  daybreak 
to-morrow  he  was  to  be  shot.  All  this  and  more,  with 
many  details  of  place  and  circumstance,  Kerry  had  seen 
as  in  a  flash  of  light,  just  as  she  was  raking  the  ashes  on 
the  fire  preparatory  to  going  to  bed. 

Mona  had  gone  through  too  much  to  be  within  touch  of 
the  blind  woman’s  excitement. 

t  “We  must  not  give  way  to  these  fancies,  Kerry,”  she 
said. 

“  Fancies,  mam  ?  Fancies  you’re  saying  ?  Scoffers 
may  mock,  but. don’t  you,  mam — brought  up  with  my  own 
hand,  as  the  saying  is.” 

|  “  I  did  not  mean  to  mock,  Kerry ;  but  we  have  so  many 
real  troubles  that  it  seems  wicked  to  imagine  others — and 
perhaps  a  little  foolish,  too.” 

At  that  word  the  sightless  face  of  Kerry  grew  to  a  great 
gravity. 

“  Foolish,  mam  ?  It  is  the  gift — the  gift  of  the  good 
God.  He  made  me  blind,  but  he  gave  me  the  sights.  It 
would  have  been  hard,  and  maybe  a  taste  cruel,  to  shut 
me  up  in  the  dark,  and  every  living  craythur  in  the  light ; 
but  he  is  a  just  God  and  a  merciful,  as  the  saying  is,  and 
he  gave  me  the  gift  for  recompense.” 

“  My  good  Kerry,  I  am  so  tired  to-night,  and  must  go  to 
bed.” 

“Aw,  yes,  and  well  it  has  sarved  me  time  upon  time - ” 

“  We  were  up  before  six  this  morning,  Kerry.” 

“And  now  I  say  to  you,  send  immadient,  mam,  or  the 
Lord  help - ” 

The  blind  woman’s  excitement  and  Mona’s  impassibility 
were  broken  in  upon  by  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  in  the 
hall  asking  sharply  for  the  Deemster.  At  the  next  mo¬ 
ment  Quayle,  the  coroner,  was  in  the  room.  His  face  was 
flushed,  his  breath  came  quick,  and  his  manner  betrayed 
extreme  agitation. 

“  When  the  Deemster  comes  home  from  Kirk  Andreas 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


24  6 

tell  him  to  go  across  to  Bishop’s  Court  at  once,  and  say 
that  I  will  be  back  before  midnight.” 

So  saying,  the  coroner  wheeled  about  without  ceremony, 
and  was  leaving  the  room. 

“  What  has  happened  at  Bishop’s  Court  ?  ”  Mona  asked. 

“  Nothing,”  he  said,  impatiently. 

“Then  why  should  I  tell  him  to  go  there  ?” 

The  tone  of  the  question  awakened  the  curmudgeon’s 
sense  of  common  policy. 

“Well,  if  you  must  know,  that  man  *has  escaped,  and 
I’m  thinking  the  Bishop  himself  has  had  his  foot  in  the 
mischief.” 

Then  Kerry,  with  a  confused  desire  to  defend  the  Bishop, 
interrupted,  and  said,  “  The  Bishop’s  not  at  the  Coort — let 
me  tell  ye  that.” 

Whereupon  the  coroner  smiled  with  a  large  dignity,  and 
answered,  “I  know  it,  woman.” 

“When  did  this  happen  ?”  said  Mona. 

“Not  an  hour  ago;  I  am  straight  from  Peeltown  this 
minute.” 

And  without  more  words  the  coroner  turned  his  back 
on  her,  and  was  gone  in  an  instant. 

When  Quayle  had  left  the  room  Kerry  lifted  both  hands  ; 
her  blind  face  wore  a  curious  expression  of  mingled  pride 
and  fear.  “  It  is  the  gift,”  she  said,  in  an  awesome  whis¬ 
per. 

Mona  stood  a  while  in  silence  and  perplexity,  and  then 
she  said,  in  tremulous  voice,  “  Kerry,  don’t  think  me  among 
those  that  scoff,  but  tell  me  over  again,  my  good  Kerry, 
and  forgive  me.” 

And  Kerry  told  the  story  of  her  vision  afresh,  and  Mona 
now  listened  with  eager  attention,  and  interrupted  with 
frequent  questions. 

“  Who  were  the  four  men  and  the  boy  ?  Never  saw  their 
faces  before  ?  Never  ?  Not  in  the  street  ?  No  ?  Never 
heard  their  voices  ?  Ah,  surely  you  remember  their 
voices  ?  Yes,  yes,  try  to  recall  them  ;  try,  try,  my  good 
Kerry.  Ah !  the  fishermen — they  were  the  voices  of  the 
fishermen!  How  were  you  so  long  in  remembering? 
Quilleash?  Yes,  old  Billy.  And  Crennell  ?  Yes,  and 
Teare  and  Corkell,  and  the  boy  Davy  Fayle  ?  Poor  young 
Davy,  he  was  one  of  them  ?  Yes  ?  Oh,  you  dear,  good 
Kerry !  ” 

Mona's  impassibility  was  gone,  and  her  questions,  like 
her  breath,  came  hot  and  fash 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*47 


«*And  now  tell  me  what  place  they  took  him  to.  The 
mountains  ?  Yes,  but  where  ?  Never  saw  the  place  be¬ 
fore  in  all  your  life  ?  Why,  no,  of  course  not  ;  how  could 
you,  Kerry  ?  Ah,  don’t  mind  what  I  say,  and  don’t  be  an- 
yry.  But  what  kind  of  place  ?  Quick,  Kerry,  quick.” 

Kerry’s  blind  face  grew  solemn,  and  one  hand,  with  out¬ 
stretched  finger,  she  raised  before  her,  as  though  to  trace 
the  scene  in  the  air,  as  she  described  the  spot  in  the  moun¬ 
tains  where  the  four  men  and  the  boy  had  taken  Dan. 

“  It  was  a  great  lone  place,  mam,  with  the  sea  a-both 
sides  of  you,  and  a  great  large  mountain  aback  of  you,  and 
a  small  low  one  in  front,  and  a  deep  strame  running  under 
pou  through  the  gorse,  and  another  shallow  one  coming 
into  it  at  a  slant,  and  all  whins  and  tussocks  of  the  lush 
^rass  about,  and  maybe  a  willow  by  the  water’s  side,  with 
the  sady-buds  hanging  dead  from  the  boughs,  and  never  a 
stick,  nor  a  sign  of  a  house,  nor  a  barn,  but  the  ould  tum¬ 
bled  cabin  where  they  took  him,  and  only  the  sea’s  roar 
afar  away,  and  the  sheep’s  bloating,  and  maybe  the  moun¬ 
tain  geese  cackling,  and  all  to  that.” 

Mona  had  listened  at  first  with  vivid  eagerness  and  a 
face  alive  with  animation,  but  as  Kerry  went  on  the  girl’s 
countenance  saddened.  She  fell  back  a  pace  or  two,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  of  pain  and  impatience  : 

“  Oh,  Kerry,  you  have  told  me  nothing.  What  you  say 
describes  nearly  every  mountain-top  in  the  island.  Was 
there  nothing  else  ?  Nothing  ?  Think.  What  about  the 
tumble-down  house  ?  Had  it  a  roof?  Yes?  No  one  liv¬ 
ing  in  it  ?  No  buildings  about  it  ? 
gear  ?  Oh,  Kerry,  how  slow  you  are  ! 

An  old  mine  ?  A  worked-out  mine  ? 
sure !  ” 


A  shaft-head  and 
Quick,  dear  Kerry  ! 
Oh,  think,  and  be 


Then  the  solemnity  of  the  blind  w’oman’sface  deepened 
to  a  look  of  inspiration.  “Think?  No  need  to  think,” 
she  said  in  an  altered  tone.  “  Lord  bless  me,  I  see  it 
again.  There,  there  it  is — there  this  very  minute.” 

She  sunk  back  into  a  chair,  and  suddenly  became  mo¬ 
tionless  and  stiff.  Her  sightless  eyes  were  opened,  and  for 
the  first  few  moments  that  followed  thereafter  all  her 
senses  seemed  to  be  lost  to  the  things  about  her.  In  this 
dream-state  she  continued  to  talk  in  a  slow,  broken,  fear¬ 
some  voice,  exclaiming,  protesting,  and  half-sobbing.  At 
first  Mona  looked  on  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  and  then  she 
dropped  to  her  knees  at  Kerry’s  feet,  and  flung  her  arms 
about  the  blind  wom*m  with  the  cry  of  a  frightened  bird? 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


248 


11  Kerry,  Kerry  !  ”  she  called,  as  if  prompted  by  an  Un¬ 
conscious  impulse  to  recall  her  from  the  trance  that  was 
awful  to  look  upon.  And  in  that  moment  of  contact  with 
the  seer  ^he  suffered  a  shock  that  penetrated  every  fibre ; 
she  shuddered,  the  cry  of  pain  died  off  in  her  throat,  her 
parted  lips  whitened  and  stiffened,  her  eyes  were  frozen  in 
their  look  of  terror,  her  breath  ceased  to  come,  her  heart 
cO  beat,  and  body  and  soul  together  seemed  transfixed.  In 
that  swift  instant  of  insensibility  the  vision  passed  like  a 
throb  of  blood  to  her  from  the  blind  woman,  and  she  saw 
and  knew  all. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mona,  with  every  nerve  vibrating, 
with  eyes  of  frenzy  and  a  voice  of  fear,  was  at  Bishop’s 
Court  inquiring  for  the  Bishop. 

“  He  is  this  minute  home  from  Peel,”  said  the  house¬ 
keeper. 

Mona  was  taken  to  the  library,  and  there  the  Bishop  sat 
before  the  fire,  staring  stupidly  into  the  flame.  His  hat  and 
cloak  had  not  yet  been  removed,  and  a  riding-whip  hung 
from  one  of  his  listless  hands. 

He  rose  as  Mona  entered.  She  flew  to  his  arms,  and 
while  he  held  her  to  his  breast  his  sad  face  softened,  and 
the  pent-up  anguish  of  her  heart  overflowed  in  tears.  Then 
she  told  him  the  tangled,  inconsequent  tale,  the  coroner’s 
announcement,  Kerry’s  vision,  her  own  strange  dream- 
state,  and  all  she  had  seen  in  it. 

As  she  spoke,  the  Bishop  looked  dazed  ;  he  pressed  one 
hand  on  his  forehead  ;  he  repeated  her  words  after  her ; 
he  echoed  the  questions  she  put  to  him.  Then  he  lifted 
his  head  to  betoken  silence.  “  Let  me  think,”  he  said.  But 
the  brief  silence  brought  no  clearness  to  his  bewildered 
brain.  He  could  not  think  ;  he  could  not  grasp  what  had 
occurred.  A  nd  the  baffled  struggle  to  comprehend  made 
the  veins  of  his  forehead  stand  out  large  and  blue.  A  most 

Eitiful  look  of  weariness  came  over  his  mellow  face,  and 
e  said  in  a  low  tone  that  was  very  touching  to  hear,  “To 
tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  child,  I  do  not  follow  you — my 
mind  seems  thick  and  clouded — things  run  together  in  it 

— I  am  only  a  feeble  old  man  now,  and -  But  wait  (a 

flash  of  light  crossed  his  troubled  face);  “you  say  you 
recognize  the  place  in  the  mountains  ?” 

“  Yes,  as  I  saw  it  in  the  vision.  I  have  been  there  be¬ 
fore.  When  I  was  a  child  I  was  there  with  Dan  and  Ewan, 
It  is  far  up  the  Sulby  River,  under  Snaefell,  and  over  Glen 
£rammag.  Don’t  say  it  is  f  oolish  and  womanish,  and  only 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


24$ 


liysteria,  deaf  uncle.  I  saw  it  all  as  plainly  as  I  see  you 
aow.” 

“Ah,  no,  my  child.  If  the  Patriarch  Joseph  practised 
such  divination,  is  it  for  me  to  call  it  foolishness  ?  But 
ivait,  wait — let  me  think/’  And  then,  in  a  low  murmur, 
is  if  communing  with  himself,  he  went  on :  “  The  door 
tvas  left  open  .  .  .  yes,  the  door  .  .  .  the  door 

was  .  .  .” 

It  was  useless.  His  brain  was  broken,  and  would  not 
link  its  ideas.  He  was  struggling  to  piece  together  the 
fact  that  Dan  was  no  longer  in  prison  with  the  incidents 
of  his  own  abandoned  preparations  for  his  son’s  escape. 
Mumbling  and  stammering,  he  looked  vacantly  into  Mona’s 
:ace,  until  the  truth  of  his  impotence  forced  itself  upon 
her,  and  she  saw  that  from  him  no  help  for  Dan  could 
come. 

Then  with  many  tears  she  left  him  and  hastened  back  to 
Ballamona.  The  house  was  in  confusion ;  the  Deemster 
and  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  returned,  and  the  coroner  was 
with  them  in  the  study. 

“And  what  of  the  Peeltown  watch  ?  ”  the  Deemster  was 
asking  sharply.  “  Where  was  he  ?  ” 

“Away  on  some  cock-and-bull  errand,  sir.” 

“  By  whose  orders  ?  ” 

“The  Bishop’s.” 

“  And  what  of  the  harbor-master  when  the  Ben-my- 
Chree  was  taken  away  from  her  moorings  ?  ” 

“He  also  was  spirited  away.” 

“By  whom?” 

“The  same  messenger— Will-as-Thorn,  the  parish 
clerk.” 

“  Old  Gorry,  the  sumner,  gave  up  the  prison  keys  to 
the  Bishop,  you  say  ?  ” 

“  To  the  Bishop,  sir.” 

“And  left  him  in  the  cell,  and  found  the  door  open  and 
the  prisoner  gone  upon  his  return  ?  ” 

“Just  so,  sir.” 

“  What  have  you  been  doing  in  the  matter  ?  ” 

“  Been  to  Ramsey,  sir,  and  stationed  three  men  on  the 
quay  to  see  that  nobody  leaves  the  island  by  the  Cumber¬ 
land  packet  that  sails  at  midnight.” 

“Tut,  man,  who  will  need  the  packet? — the  man  has 
the  fishing-boat.” 

Mona’s  impatience  could  contain  itself  no  longer.  She 
hurried  into  the  study  and  told  her  tale#  The  Deemster 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


250 

listened  with  a  keen,  quick  sense  ;  he  questioned,  cross- 
questioned,  and  learned  all.  This  done,  he  laughed  a  little, 
coldly  and  bitterly,  and  dismissed  the  whole  story  with 
contempt. 

“  Kidnapped  ?  No  such  matter.  Escaped,  woman — es¬ 
caped  !  And  visions,  forsooth  !  What  peddler’s  French  ! 
Get  away  to  bed,  girl.0 

Mona  had  no.  choice  but  to  go.  Her  agitation  was 
painful  ;  her  sole  thought  was  of  Dan’s  peril.  She  was  a 
woman,  and  that  Dan  was  a  doomed  man,  whether  in 
prison  or  out  of  it,  whether  he  had  escaped  or  been  kid¬ 
napped,  was  a  consideration  that  had  faded  from  her  view. 
His  life  was  in  imminent  danger,  and  that  was  everything 
to  her.  She  had  triqd  to  save  him  by  help  of  the  Bishop, 
and  failing  in  that  direction,  she  had  attempted  the  same 
end  by  help  of  the  Deemster,  his  enemy. 

The  hours  passed  with  feet  of  lead  until  three  o’clock  I 
struck,  and  then  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door.  The 
Deemster’s  voice  summoned  her  to  rise,  dress  quickly  and 
warmly,  and  come  out  immediately.  She  had  not  gone  to  1 
bed,  and  in  two  minutes  more  was  standing  hooded  and 
cloaked  in  the  hall.  The  Deemster,  Jarvis,  the  coroner,  \ 
and  seven  men  were  there.  At  the  porch  a  horse,,  saddled  1 
and  bridled,  was  pawing  the  gravel. 

Mona  understood  everything  at  a  glance.  Clearly : 
enough  the  Deemster  intended  to  act  on  the  guidance  ol> 
the  vision  which  he  had  affected  to  despise.  Evidently  it 
was  meant  that  she  should  go  with  the  men  to  identify  the  • 
place  she  had  described. 

“  An  old  lead  mine  under  Suaefell  and  over  Glen  Cram* 

mag,  d’you  say  ?  ” 

“Yes,  father.” 

“  Daybreak  ?  ” 

“  It  was  daybreak.” 

“You  would  know  the  place  if  you  saw  it  again  ?H 

“  Yes.” 

The  Deemster  turned  to  the  coroner. 

“Which  course  do  you  take  ?” 

“  Across  Glen  Dhoo,  sir,  past  Ravensdale,  and  along  the 
mountain-path  to  the  Sherragh  Vane.” 

“Come,  girl,  mount  ;  be  quick.” 

Mona  was  lifted  to  the  saddle,  the  coroner  took  the 
bridle,  and  they  started  away,  the  seven  men  walking  be« 
hind. 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


*5* 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

KIDNAPPED* 

What  had  happened  was  a  strange  series  of  coincidences, 
larly  that  day  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my-Chree,  in  the  moun® 
lin  solitude  where  they  found  freezing  and  starving  safety, 
ad  sent  one  of  their  number  back  to  Sulby  village  to  buy 
quarter  of  meal.  Teare  was  the  man  chosen  for  the  er® 
?>nd,  and  having  compassed  it,  he  was  stealing  his  way 
ack  to  the  mountains,  when  he  noticed  that  great  com- 
anies  of  people  were  coming  from  the  direction  of  Ram- 
ly.  Lagging  behind  the  larger  groups  on  the  read  was  a 
roman  whom  he  recognized  as  his  wdfe.  He  attracted  her 
ttention  without  revealing  himself  to  the  people  in  front, 
he  was  returning  from  the  Deemster’s  inquest,  and  told 
rhat  had  occurred  there  :  that  Dan,  the  Bishop’s  son,  had 
jrrendered,  and  that  the  indictment  to  the  Court  of  Gen- 
ral  Jail  Delivery  had  been  made  out  not  only  in  his  name, 
ut  in  the  names  of  the  four  mep  and  the  boy  of  the  Ben- 
ly-Chree. 

Teare  carried  back  to  the  mountains  a  heavier  burden 
lan  the  quarter  of  meal.  His  mates  had  watched  for 
im  as  he  plodded  up  the  bank  of  the  Sulby  River  with 
le  bag  on  his  back.  When  he  came  up  his  face  was  omi- 
ous. 

“Send  the  lad  away  for  a  spell,”  he  muttered  to  old 
lilly  Quilleash,  and  Davy  Fayle  was  sent  to  cut  gorse  for 

fire. 

Then  the  men  gathered  around  Teare  and  heard  what 
ad  happened.  The  disaster  had  fallen  which  they  fore- 
iw.  What  was  to  be  done?  Crennell,  with  a  line  from 
psalm,  was  for  trusting  in  the  Lord  ;  and  old  Quilleash, 
rith  an  oath,  was  for  trusting  in  his  heels.  After  a  pause 
'eare  propounded  his  scheme.  It  centred  in  Dan.  Dan 
nth  his  confession  was  their  sole  danger.  Once  rid  of 
)an  they  were  as  free  men.  Before  his  confession  of 
uilt  their  innocence  was  beyond  his  power  to  prove  or 
leir  power  to  establish.  On  his  way  up  from  the  valley 
'eare  had  hit  on  a  daring  adventure.  They  were  to  break 
ito  the  castle  at  Peel,  take  Dan  by  force,  bring  him  up 
^  the  mountains,  and  there  give  him  the  choice  of  life  or 
oath  :  life  if  he  promised  to  plead  Not  Guilty  to  the  in- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


252 

dlctment,  death  if  he  adhered  to  the  resolution -by  which 
he  had  surrendered. 

The  men  gathered  closer  about  Teare,  and  with  yet 
whiter  faces.  Teare  gave  his  plan  j  his  scheme  was  com¬ 
plete  ;  that  night  they  were  to  carry  it  out.  Paton  Gorry 
was  the  jailer  at  Peel  Castle.  The  lad  Davy  was  the  old 
jjumner’s  godchild.  Davy  was  to  go  forth  and  smuggle 
Gorry’s  keys  out  of  the  guard-room.  If  that  were  found 
impossible— well,  Paton  was  an  old  man  ;  he  might  be  put 
quietly  out  of  harm’s  way — no  violence — och  !  no,  not  a 
ha’p’orth.  Then  Corkell  was  son-in-law  of  the  watch  at 
Peeltown,  and  hence  the  watch  must  take  the  harbor-mas¬ 
ter  to  the  “  Jolly  Herrings,”  in  Castle  Street,  while  they 
themselves,  Teare,  Quilleash,  Crennell,  and  Corked,  took 
the  Ben-my-Chree  from  her  moorings  at  the  mouth  of  the 
harbor.  On  the  west  coast  of  St.  Patrick’s  Isle  they  must 
bear  down  and  run  the  dingy  ashore.  Then  Dan  must  be 
seized  in  his  cell,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  brought 
aboard.  With  a  fair  wind— it  was  blowing  east-sou’east— 
they  must  set  sail  for  Ramsey  Bay,  put  about  at  Lague,. 
anchor  there,  and  go  ashore.  “That’ll  lave  it/  said  Teare, 
“to  raisonable  inf’rence  that  Mastha  Dan  had  whipped  off 
to  England  by  the  Whitehaven  packet  that  sails  at  mid¬ 
night  from  the  quay.” 

This  done,  they  were  to  find  a  horse,  strap  the  fettered 
man  to  its  back,  fetch  him  into  the  mountains  in  the  dark 
hours  of  the  night,  and  at  daybreak  try  him  solemnly  and 
justly  on  the  issue  they  had  hit  upon  of  life  or  death.  No 
violence  !  Aw,  no,  all  just  and  straight !  If  so  be  that  the 
man  was  hanging  them,  they’d  do  him  justice  man  to  rrmn^l 
as  fair  as  the  backbone  lies  down  the  middle  of  a  herring. 
Deemster’s  justice  couldn’t  be  cleaner ;  no,  nor  as  clean. 
Aw,  yes,  no  violence  !  #  - 

It  was  an  intricate  plan,  iavolving  many  risks,  presup¬ 
posing  many  favorable  chances.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a 
logical  computation  of  probabilities.  But,  good  or  bad 
logical  or  illogical,  probable  or  improbable,  easy  of  accom¬ 
plishment  or  full  of  risk  and  peril,  it  was  the  only  alterna¬ 
tive  to  trusting  in  the  Lord,  as  Crennell  had  suggested,  oi 
in  their  heels,  as  Quilleash  had  preferred.  In  the  end  the) 
took  it,  and  madeready  to  act  on  it. 

As  the  men  arrived  at  their  conclusion  Davy  Fayle  was 
returning  with  an  armful  of  withered  gorse  for  a  fire.  Thtj 
first  move  in  that  night’s  adventure  was  to  be  made  by 
him.  “  Lave  the  lad  to  me,”  whispered  Quilleash,  anc 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

Straightway  he  tackled  Davy.  Veracity  was  not  conspicu¬ 
ous  in  the  explanation  that  the  old  salt  made.  Poor  Mas- 
tha  Dan  had  been  nabbed,  bad  cess  to  it,  and  jiggered  up 
in  Peel  Castle.  He  would  be  hanged  sarten  sure.  Aw, 
safe  for  it,  if  some  chaps  didn’t  make  an  effort  immadieut. 
They  meant  to  do  it,  too.  Ay,  that  very  evenin’ !  Wouldn't 
they  let  him  help  ?  Well,  pozzible,  pozzible.  They  wasn’t 
no  objection  to  that.  Thus,  Davy  fell  an  eager  victim  to 
a  plan  that  was  not  propounded  to  him.  If  saving  Mastha 
Dan  from  the  dirts  that  had  nabbed  him  was  the  skame 
that  was  goin’,  why,  nothin’  would  hould  him  but  he  would 
be  in  it.  “  Be  aisy  with  the  lob  lolly-boy  and  you  have 
him,”  whispered  old  Billy  behind  the  back  of  his  hand,  as 
he  spat  a  long  jet  from  his  quid. 

Relieved  of  doubt  as  to  their  course  of  action,  they  built 
a  fire  and  warmed  themselves,  and  with  water  from  the 
river  below  they  made  cold  porridge  of  the  meal,  and  ate 
and  drank,  and  waited  for  the  night.  The  darkness  came 
*arly — it  was  closing  in  at  four  o’clock.  Then  the  men 
smothered  their  fire  with  turf  and  earth  and  set  out  for 
Peeltown.  Their  course  was  over  Colden,  and  between 
Sreeba  and  Beary,  to  the  breast  of  Sleau  Whallin,  and 
:hen  down  to  St.  Patrick’s  Isle  by  the  foot  of  Corrin’s  Hill. 
It  was  twelve  miles  over  hill  and  dale,  through  the  dark¬ 
ness  and  the  muggy  air  of  the  winter’s  night.  They  had 
to  avoid  the  few  houses  and  to  break  their  pace  when  foot¬ 
steps  came  their  way.  But  they  covered  the  distance  in 
less  than  four  hours.  At  eight  o’clock  they  were  standing 
together  on  the  south  of  the  bridge  that  crosses  the  Neb 
River  at  the  top  of  Peel  Harbor.  There  they  separated. 
Corkell  went  off  to  the  market-place  by  a  crooked  alley 
from  the  quay  to  find  the  watch  and  dispose  of  him. 
When  the  harbor-master  had  been  removed,  Corkell  was 
to  go  to  the  Ben-my-Chree,  which  was  moored  in  deep 
water  at  the  end  of  the  wooden  pier,  open  the  scuttle  on 
the  south,  and  put  the  lamp  to  it  as  a  signal  of  safety  to 
^unleash,  Teare,  and  Crennell  above  the  bridge  on  the 
leadland  opposite.  They  were  then  to  come  aboard. 
Davy  Fayle  took  the  south  quay  to  St.  Patrick’s  Isle.  It 
■vas  now  the  bottom  of  the  ebb-tide,  and  Davy  was  to 
vade  the  narrow  neck  that  divided  the  isle  from  the  main* 
and.  Perhaps  he  might  light  on  a  boat ;  perhaps  cross 
fry-shod.  In  half  an  hour  he  was  to  be  on  the  west  of  the 
astle,  just  under  a  spot  known  as  the  Giant's  Grave,  and 
tare  the  four  men  were  to  come  ashore  to  him  in  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*54 

dingy,  Meantime  he  was  to  see  old  Paton  Gorry  and  gen 
erally  take  the  soundings.  Thus  they  parted. 

Davy  found  the  water  low  and  the  ford  dry.  He  crossec 
it  as  noiselessly  as  he  could,  and  reached  the  rocks  of  th< 
isle.  It  was  not  so.  dark  but  he  could  descry  the  dim  out 
lines  of  the  ruined  castle.  A  flight  of  steps  ascended  fron 
the  water’s  edge  to  the  portcullis.  Davy  crept  up.  H< 
liad  prepared  to  knock  at  the  old  notched  door  under  the 
arch,  but  he  found  it  standing  open.  He  stood  and  lis 
tened.  At  one  moment  he  thought  he  heard  a  movemen 
behind  him.  It  was  darkest  of  all  under  these  thick  walls 
He  went  on  ;  he  passed  the  doorway  that  is  terrible  witl 
the  tradition  of  the  Moddey  Dhoo.  As  he  went  by  th< 
door  he  turned  his  head  to  it  in  the  darkness,  and  onc< 
again  he  thought  he  heard  something  stir.  This  time  th< 
sound  came  from  before  him.  He  gasped,  and  had  almos 
screamed.  He  stretched  his  arms  toward  the  sound.  Then 
was  .nothing.  All  was  still  once  more. 

Davy  stepped  forward  into  the  courtyard.  His  feet  fel 
softly  on  the  grass  that  grew  there.  At  length  he  reacher 
the  guard-room.  Once  more  he  had  lifted  his  hand  t< 
knock,  and  once  more  he  found  the  door  open.  He  looke< 
into  the  room.  It  was  empty  ;  a  fire  burned  on  the  hearth 
a  form  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  it ;  a  pipe  lay  on  a  ban 
deal  table.  “He  has  gone  down  to  the  cell,”  Davy  tol< 
himself,  and  he  made  his  way  to  the  steps  that  led  to  th« 
dungeon.  But  he  stopped  again,  and  his  heart  seemed  t< 
stand  still.  There  could  now  be  no  doubt  but  someon 
was  approaching.  There  was  the  faint  jingle  as  of  keys 
“  Paton  !  Paton  !  ”  Davy  called,  fearfully.  There  was  n« 
answer,  but  the  footsteps  came  on.  “Who  is  there  ?”  h 
cried  again,  in  a  tremulous  whisper.  At  the  next  instan 
a  man  passed  in  the  darkness,  and  Davy  saw  and  kne\ 
him.  It  was  the  Bishop. 

Davy  dropped  to  his  knees.  A  moment  afterward  th 
Bishop  was  gone  through  the  outer  gate  and  down  th 
steps.  His  footsteps  ceased,  and  then  there  were  voices 
followed  by  the  plash  of  an  oar,  and  then  all  was  silenc 
once  more,  save  for  the  thick  boom  of  the  sea  that  cam 
up  from  the  rocks. 

Davy  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  toward  the  steps  tha 
led  down  to  the  door  of  the  dungeon.  A  light  came  froc 
below.  The  door  was  open  also,  and  stretching  himsel 
full-length  on  to  the  ground,  Davy  could  see  into  the  cel: 
On  the  floor  there  was  a  lantern,  and  beside  it  a  bundl 


THE  DEEMSTEk.  i# 

Jay.  £)an  was  there  ;  he  was  lying  on  the  stone  couch  ;  ho 
was  alone. 

Breathless  and  trembling,  Davy  rose  again  and  fled  out 
of  the  old  castle  and  along  the  rocky  causeway  to  a  gullet 
under  the  Giant’s  Grave.  There  the  men  were  waiting 
for  him. 

“  The  place  is  bewitched,”  he  said,  with  quick-coming 
breath  ;  and  he  told  how  every  door  was  open,  and  not  a 
soul  was  in  the  castle  except  Dan.  The  men  heard  him 
with  evident  terror.  Corkell  had  just  told  them  a  similar 
story.  The  watch  and  the  harbor-master  had  both  been  re¬ 
moved  before  he  had  gone  in  search  of  them.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  done  to  their  hands.  Nothing  was  left  to 
them  to  do  but  simply  to  walk  into  the  castle  and  carry 
out  their  design.  This  terrified  them.  “  It’s  a  fate,”  Corkell 
whispered;  and  Crennell,  in  white  awe  of  the  unseen  hand 
that  was  helping  them,  was  still  for  trusting  in  the  Lord. 
Thus  they  put  their  heads  together.  Quilleash  was  first 
to  recover  from  superstitious  fears.  (( Come,  lay  down,  and 
no  blather,”  he  said,  and  stalked  resolutely  forward,  carry¬ 
ing  a  sack  and  a  coil  of  rope.  The  other  men  followed 
him  in  silence.  Davy  was  ordered  to  stay  behind  with  the 
small-boat. 

They  found  everything  as  the  lad  had  left  it :  the  notched 
door  of  the  portcullis  was  open,  the  door  of  the  guard- 
room  was  open,  and  when  they  came  to  the  steps  of  the 
dungeon  the  door  there  was  also  open.  A  moment  they 
stood  and  listened,  and  heard  no  sound  from  below  but  a 
light,  regular  breathing,  as  of  one  man  only.  Then  they 
went  quietly  down  the  steps  and  into  the  cell.  Dan  was 
asleep.  At  sight  of  him,  lying  alone  and  unconscious, 
their  courage  wavered  a  moment.  The  unseen  hand  seemed 
to  be  on  them  still.  “  I  tell  thee  it’s  a  fate,”  Corkell 
whispered  again  over  Quilleash’s  shoulder.  In  half  a  min¬ 
ute  the  sleeping  man  was  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  the 
sack  was  thrown  over  his  head.  At  the  first  touch  he 
awoke  and  tried  to  rise,  but  four  men  were  over  his  pros¬ 
trate  body,  and  they  overpowered  him.  He  cried  lustily, 
but  there  was  none  to  hear.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it  the  men  were  carrying  Dan  out  of  the  cell.  The 
lantern  they  left  on  the  floor,  and  in  their  excitement  they 
did  not  heed  the  parcel  that  lay  by  it. 

Over  the  courtyard,  through  the  gate,  along  the  ledge 
under  the  crumbling  walls,  they  stumbled  and  plunged  in 
the  aarkaees.  They  reached  the  boat  and  pushed  off. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Ten  minutes  afterward  they  were  aboard  the  Ben-myu 
Chree  and  were  beating  down  the  bay. 

Dan  recognized  the  voices  of  the  men,  and  realized  his 
situation.  He  did  not  shout  again.  The  sack  over  his 
head  was  of  coarse  fibre,  admitting  the  air,  and  he  could 
breathe  through  it  without  difficulty.  He  had  been  put  to 
lie  on  one  of  the  bunks  in  the  cabin,  and  he  could  see  the 
tossing  light  of  the  horn  lantern  that  hung  from  the  deck- 
planks.  When  the  boat  rolled  in  the  strong  sea  that  was 
running  lie  could  sometimes  see  the  lights  on  the  land 
through  the  open  scuttle. 

With  a  fair  wind  for  the  Point  of  Ayr,  full  sail  was 
stretched.  Corkell  stood  to  the  tiller,  and,  when  all  went 
smoothly,  the  three  men  turned  in  below,  and  lit  a  fire  in 
the  stove,  and  smoked.  Then  Davy  Fayle  came  down  i 
with  eyes  dull  and  sick.  He  had  begun  to  doubt,  and  to 
ask  questions  that  the  men  could  not  answer.  What  for 
was  Mastha  Dan  tied  up  like  a  haythen  ?  And  what  for 
the  sack  ?  But  the  men  were  in  no  humor  for  cross-exam¬ 
ination.  No  criss-crossing  !  The  imperent  young  idiot 
waistrel,  let  him  keep  his  breath  to  cool  his  porridge. 
To  quiet  the  lad  the  men  plied  him  with  liquor,  and  at  the 
second  draught  he  was  reeling  drunk.  Then  he  laughed  a 
wild  laugh,  and  sung  a  mad  song,  and  finally  stood  up  tc 
dance.  It  was  a  grim  sight,  but  it  was  soon  ended,  and 
Davy  was  put  to  sleep  in  another  of  the  bunks.  Then  twc 
hours  passed,  and  there  was  some  growling  and  quarrelling. 

Crennell  and  Teare  went  up  on  deck.  Quilleash  re¬ 
mained  below,  sitting  before  the  stove  cleaning  with  or 
and  a  rag  a  fowling-piece  that  Dan  had  brought  aboard  i 
at  the  beginning  of  the  herring  season.  Sometimes  h( 
crooned  a  Manx  carval,  and  sometimes  whistled  it,  as  he 
worked,  chewing  his  quid  meantime,  and  glancing  at  in¬ 
tervals  at  Dan’s  motionless  figure  on  the  bunk : 

With  pain  we  record 
The  year  of  our  Lord 
Sixteen  hundred  and  sixty  and  sayvCSV 
When  it  so  come  to  pass 
A  good  fishing  there  wass 
Off  Dooglas,  and  a  wonderful  sayson. 

There  was  no  other  sound  in  the  cabin,  except  Davy** 
heavy  breathing  and  the  monotonous  beat  of  the  water  ai 
the  boat’s  bow.  Dan  lay  as  quiet  as  the  dead.  Nevei 
once  had  he  spoken  or  been  spoken  to» 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*S7 

Ths  heat  was  flying  before  the  wind.  The  sky  had 
beared,  and  the  stars  were  out^and  the  lights  on  the  shore 
•ould  be  plainly  seen.  Orrisdale,  Jurby,  and  the  Rue 
vent  by,  and  when  Bishop’s  Court  was  passed  the  light  in 
ihe  library  window  burned  clear  and  strong  over  the  sea. 
Toward  ten  o’clock  the  light-house  on  the  Point  of  Ayr 
yas  rounded,  and  then  the  boat  had  to  bear  down  the 
Ramsey  Bay  in  tacks.  Before  eleven  they  were  passing 
;he  town,  and  could  see  the  lights  of  the  Cumberland 
packet  as  she  lay  by  the  quay.  It  was  then  three-quarter 
tide.  In  half  an  hour  more  the  lugger  was  put  about  at 
Port  Lague,  and  there  Dan  was  taken  ashore  by  Teare 
and  Crennell.  Quilleash  went  with  them,  carrying  the 
fowling-piece. 

Corkell  and  Davy  Fayle,  who  had  recovered  from  his 
Stupor,  were  to  take  the  Ben-my-Chree  back  into  Ramsey 
Bay,  to  drop  anchor  under  Ballure,  and  then  to  rejoin 
their  companions  at  Lague  before  twelve  o’clock.  This 
ivas  to  divert  suspicion,  and  to  provoke  the  inference, 
ivhen  the  fishing-boat  would  be  found  next  morning,  that 
Dan  had  escaped  to  England  by  the  Whitehaven  packet. 

The  Ben-my-Chree  sailed  off  with  Corkell  and  Davy. 
Teare  went  in  search  of  a  horse,  Quilleash  and  Crennell 
remained  on  the  shore  at  Lague  with  Dan.  It  was  a  bleak 
and  desolate  place,  with  nothing  to  the  south  but  the  grim 
rocks  of  the  Tableland  Head,  and  with  never  a  house  to 
the  north  nearer  than  Folieu,  which  was  half  a  mile  away. 
The  night  was  now  bitterly  cold.  The  stars  were  gone,  the 
darkness  was  heavy,  and  a  nipping  frost  was  in  the  dense 
atmosphere.  But  the  wind  had  dropped,  and  every  sound 
sent  a  dull  echo  through  the  air.  The  two  men  waited 
and  listened.  Thus  far  all  had  gone  well  with  them,  but 
what  remained  to  do  was  perilous  enough.  If  Corkell 
and  the  lad  happened  to  be  seen  when  coming  from  the 
boat,  if  Teare  were  caught  in  the  act  of  borrowing  a  horse 
without  leave,  'lien  all  would  be  over  with  them.  Their 
suspense  was  keen. 

Presently  there  came  up  to  them  from  the  bay,  over  the 
dull  rumble  of  the  waves  on  the  shore,  a  quick  creaking 
sound,  followed  by  a  splash  and  then  a  dead  roll.  They 
knew  it  was  the  anchor  being  slipped  to  its  berth.  Soon 
afterward  there  came  from  the  land  to  the  south  the  sharp 
yap  of  dogs,  followed  at  a  sharp  interval  by  the  heavy 
beat  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  on  the  road.  Was  it  Teare  with 
the  horse  ?  Was  he  pursued  ?  The  men  listened,  but 
17 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


253 

could  hear  no  other  noise.  Then  there  came  through  the 
dense  air  the  muffled  sound  of  a  bell  ringing  at  the  quay. 
It  was  the  first  of  three  bells  that  were  rung  on  the 
Cumberland  packet  immediately  before  it  set  sail. 

The  horse  behind  drew  nearer,  the  bell  in  front  rang 
again.  Then  Teare  came  up  leading  a  big  draught  mare 
by  the  bridle.  He  had  been  forced  to  take  it  from  the 
stable  at  Lague,  and  in  getting  it  away  he  had  aroused 
the  dogs  ;  but  he  had  not  been  followed,  and  ad  was  safe. 
The  bell  rang  a  third  time,  and  immediately  a  red  light 
crept  out  from  the  quay  toward  the  sea,  which  lay  black 
as  a  raven  below.  The  Cumberland  packet  had  gone. 

At  that  moment  Corkell  and  Davy  Fayle  returned,  Cor- 
kell  holding  Davy  by  the  neck  of  his  guernsey.  The  lad 
had  begun  to  give  signs  of  a  mutinous  cpirit,  which  the 
man  had  suppressed  by  force.  Davy’s  eyes  flashed,  but 
he  was  otherwise  quiet  and  calm. 

“  What  for  is  all  this,  you  young  devil  ?  ”  said  Quilleash. 
“  What  d’ye  mean?  Out  with  it,  quick!  what  tricks 
now  ?  D — —  his  fool’s  face,  what  for  does  he  look  at  me 
like  that  ?  ” 

“  Dowse  that,  Billy,  and  bear  a  hand  and  be  quiet,”  said 
Crennell. 

“The  young  pauper’s  got  the  imperence  of  sin,”  said 
Quilleash. 

Then  the  men  lifted  Dan  on  to  the  back  of  the  big 
mare,  and  strapped  him  with  his  covered  face  to  the  sky. 
Never  a  word  was  spoken  to  him, ..and  never  a  word  did 
he  speak. 

“  Let’s  make  a  slant  for  it,”  said  Teare,  and  he  took  the 
bridle.  Corkell  and  Crennell  walked  on  either  side  of  the 
horse.  Quilleash  walked  behind,  carrying  the  fowling- 
piece  over  his  left  shoulder.  Davy  was  at  his  right  hand. 

The  journey  thereafter  was  long  and  heavy.  They.took 
the  path  that  is  to  the  north  by  Barrule  and  Clag  Ouyre 
and  runs  above  Glen  Auldyn  and  winds  round  to  the  south 
of  Snaefell.  Ten  miles  they  plodded  on  in  the  thick  dark¬ 
ness  and  the  cold,  with  only  the  rumbling  rivers  for  com¬ 
pany,  and  with  the  hidden  mountains  making  unseen 
ghosts  about  them.  On  they  went,  with  the  horse  between 
them,  taking  its  steady  stride  that  never  varied  and  never 
failed,  even  when  the  rivers  crossed  the  path  and  their 
own  feet  stumbled  into  ruts.  On  and  on,  hour  after  hour, 
Until  their  weary  limbs  dragged  after  them,  and  their  gOc> 
sip  ceased,  and  even  their  growling  and  quarrelling  wad 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


*S9 

no  more  heard  Then  on  and  still  on  in  the  gruesome 
silence. 

Under  the  breast  of  Snaefell  they  came  into  the  snow 
of  two  days  ago,  which  had  disappeared  in  the  valleys  but 
still  lay  on  the  mountains,  and  was  now  crisp  under  their 
feet.  It  seemed,  as  they  looked  down  in  the  darkness,  to 
pass  beneath  them  like  short,  smoky  vapor  that  dazed  the 
eyes  and  made  the  head  giddy.  Still  higher,  the  sound 
of  running  waters  suddenly  stopped,  for  the  rivers  were 
frozen  and  their  voices  silenced.  But  the  wind  blew  more 
strongly  as  they  ascended  the  chill  heights. 

Sometimes  at  the  top  of  a  long  rise  they  stopped  to 
breathe  the  horse,  and  then,  with  no  sound  above  or 
around  except  the  shrill  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  gorse, 
their  courage  began  to  fail.  Ghostly  imaginings  would 
not  be  kept  down. 

“  Did  you  ever  hear  the  Lockman!”  said  Crennell  be¬ 
neath  his  breath. 

“I  never  come  agen  him,”  said  Quilleash.  “When  I 
see  anything  at  night  on  the  mountains  I  allis  lave  it 
alone.” 

The  other  men  shuddered,  and  forthwith  began  to 
whistle  right  lustily. 

Sometimes  they  passed  a  mountain  sheep-pen,  and  the 
sheep  being  disturbed,  would  bleat.  Sometimes  a  dog  at  a 
distant  house  would  hear  them  and  bark;  and  even  that, 
though  it  was  a  signal  of  danger,  was  also  a  sort  of  human 
companionship  on  the  grim  mountain-side. 

It  was  a  dreary  walk,  and  to  Dan,  bound  hand  and  foot 
on  the  horse,  it  was  a  painful  ride — a  cold  one  it  could  not 
be,  for  the  awkward  motion  brought  warmth.  The  night 
wore  on,  and  the  air  grew  keener  ;  the  men's  beards  be¬ 
came  crisp  with  the  frost. 

At  length  the  silent  company  rounded  Snaefell  to  the 
north  of  Cronk-y-Vane  and  Beinn-y-Phott.  Then  Teare 
at  the  horse's  head  twisted  about,  “  Do  we  take  the  ould 
mine-shed  for  it  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“Ay,”  said  Quilleash. 

Their  journey  was  almost  ended.  The  sky  over  the  sea 
behind  them  was  then  dabbled  with  gray,  and  a  smell  of 
dawn  was  coming  down  from  the  mountains* 


THE  VEEMSTEEL 


260 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  RUDE  TRIBUNAL. 

The  course  taken  by  the  coroner  and  his  seven  men/ 
with  Mona  on  the  horse,  came  to  a  triangle  of  mountain* 
paths  above  a  farm  known  as  the  Sherragh  Vane.  One 
path  wound  close  under  the  west  foot  of  Snaefell,  another 
followed  the  bed  of  the  river  that  ran  through  a  glen 
called'Crammag,  and  the  third  joined  these  two  by  cross¬ 
ing  the  breast  of  Beinn-y-Phott.  At  the  acute  angle  of 
the  Sherragh  Vane  the  coroner  drew  up. 

“  Can-  anyone  see  the  lead  shaft  ?”  he  asked.  None 
could  see  it.  The  darkness  had  lifted  away,  and  the  crown 
of  Snaefell  was  bare  against  the  sky,  like  an  islet  of  green 
floating  over  a  cloud  of  vapor.  But  the  mists  still  lay 
thick  on  the  moorlands,  and  even  the  high  glens  were  ob¬ 
scure. 

“  It  must  be  yonder,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  up  the 
river, ”  said  the  coroner. 

The  lead-mine  was  in  the  southeast  angle  of  the  tri¬ 
angle  of  paths,  under  the  southwest  of  Snaefell  and  the 
north  of  Beinn-y-Phott.  For  some  minutes  the  company 
was  at  a  stand  while  the  coroner  considered  their  move¬ 
ments. 

Mona’s  impatience  was  manifest.  “  Let  us  push  on,” 
she  said. 

The  coroner  merely  eyed  her  largely,  and  resumed  his 
deliberations. 

“Oh  !  how  we  waste  our  time,”  she  said  again.  “  If  the 
lead  mine  is  there,  what  have  we  to  do  but  reach  it  ?  ” 

The  coroner  with  an  insolent  smile  inquired  if  the  lady 
felt  the  cold. 

“  He  is  in  danger  for  his  life,  and  here  we  waste  the  pre¬ 
cious  minutes  in  idle  talk,”  she  answered. 

“  Danger  for  his  life,”  the  coroner  echoed,  and  laughed 
coldly.  Then  in  a  tone  of  large  meaning  he  added, 
“Possible,  possible,”  and  smiled  at  his  own  subtle 
thought. 

Mona’s  anxiety  mastered  her  indignation. 

“  Look,  the  mist  is  lifting.  See,  there  is  the  shed — there 
in  the  gap  between  the  hills,  and  it  is  the  very  place  I  saw* 
Come,  make  haste — look,  it  is  daylight.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


26t 


*'  Be  aisy,  be  aisy.  If  they’re  in  yonder  shed,  they  are 
packed  as  safe  as  herrings  in  a  barrel,”  said  the  coro- 
1 3cr. 

Then  he  divided  his  forces.  Three  men  he  sent  down 
;he  path  of  the  Glen  Crammag.  Two  he  left  where  they 
then  stood  to  guard  that  outlet  to  the  Curraghs  of  the 
north  and  west.  Two  others  were  to  creep  along  the  path 
under  Snaefell,  and  shut  out  the  course  to  the  sea  and  the 
lowlands  on  the  south  and  east.  He  himself  would  walk 
straight  up  to  the  shed,  and  his  seven  men  as  they  saw 
him  approach  it  were  to  close  quickly  in  from  the  three 
corners  of  the  triangle. 

“  Is  it  smoke  that’s  rising  above  the  shed  ?  A  tire  ? 
Possible.  He  thinks  he’s  safe,  I’ll  go  bail.  Och  !  yes,  and 
maybe  eating  and  drinking  and  making  aisy.  Now,  men, 
away  with  you.” 

Within  the  shed  itself  at  that  moment  there  was  as  grim 
a  scene  as  the  eye  of  man  has  yet  looked  upon.  The  place 
was  a  large  square  building  of  two  rooms,  one  on  the 
ground-level  and  the  other  above  it,  the  loft  being  entered 
by  a^trap  in  the  floor  with  a  wooden  ladder  down  the  wall. 
It  had  once  served  as  gear-shed  and  office,  stable,  and 
store,  but  now  it  was  bare  and  empty.  In  the  wall  look¬ 
ing  east  there  was  a  broad  opening  without  door,  and  m 
the  W2&  looking  north  a  narrow  opening  without  win¬ 
dow. 

To  a  hasp  in  the  jamb  of  the  doorway  the  big  mare  was 
tethered,  and  in  the  draught  between  the  two  openings 
the  lad  Davy  with  wandering  mind  was  kindling  a  fire  of 
gorse  over  two  stones.  The  smoke  filled  the  place,  and 
through  its  dense  volumes  in  the  dusk  of  that  vaporous 
dawn°the  faces  of  the  men  were  bleared  and  green  and 
haggajd.  The  four  fishermen  stood  in  a  group  together, 
with  old  Quilleash  a  pace  to  the  fore,  the  fowling-piece 
in  his  hand,  its  butt  on  the  ground,  Before  him  and 
facing  him,  two  paces  in  front,  stood  Dan,  his  arms  still 
bound  to  his  sides,  his  head  uncovered,  and  his  legs  free. 
There  was  a  gaunt  earnestness  in  every  face. 

«  Listen  to  me,”  said  old  Quilleash.  “  We’re  going  to 
judge  and  jury  you,  but  all  fair  and  square,  as  God  is 
above  us,  and  doing  nothing  that  we  can’t  answer  for 
when  the  big  day  comes  and  every  man  has  to  toe  his 
mark.  D’ye  hear  what  we’re  saying,  sir  ?  ” 

Dan  moved  his  head  slightly  by  way  of  assent. 

"  We’ve  trapped  you,  it’s  true,  and  fetched  you  by  forccb 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


that’s  sartin  ;  but  we  mean  to  be  just  by  you,  and  no  vio¬ 
lence  ;  and  it’s  spakin’  the  truth  we’re  going  to  do,  and 
never  a  word  of  a  lie.” 

The  other  men  muttered  “  Ay,  ay  ;  ”  and  Quilleash  went 
on  :  “  We’re  chaps  what  believes  in  a  friend,  and  buckin' 
up  for  them  as  bucks  up  for  you,  and  being  middlin' 
staunch,  and  all  to  that  ;  but  we’re  after  doing  it  once  too 
often.” 

“So  we  are,” said  Crennell,  and  the  others  muttered 
again,  “Ay,  ay.” 

Quilleash  spat  behind  his  hand  and  continued:  “The 
long  and  short  of  it  is  that  you’re  goin'  middlin’  straight 
for  hanging  us,  and  it  isn’t  natheral  as  we’re  to  stand  by 
and  see  it  done.” 

Dan  lifted  his  face  from  the  ground.  “  I  meant  to  do 
you  no  harm,  my  good  fellows,”  he  said,  quickly. 

“Meaning’s  meaning,  but  doing’s  doing, and  we’ve  heard 
all  that’s  going,”  said  Quilleash.  “You’ve  surrendered 
and  confessed,  and  the  presentment  is  agen  us  all,  and 
what’s  in  for  you  is  in  for  us.” 

“But  you  are  innocent  men.  What  need  you  fear?” 

“Innocent  we  be,  but  where  the  Deemster  comes  there’s 
not  a  ha’p’orth  to  choose  between  you  and  us.” 

Dan’s  face  flushed,  and  he  answered  warmly,  “Men, 
don’t  let  your  miserable  fears  make  cowards  of  you. 
What  have  you  done  ?  Nothing.  You  are  innocent. 
Yet  how  are  you  bearing  yourselves  ?  Like  guilty  men. 
If  I  were  innocent  do  you  think  I  would  skulk  away  in 
the  mountains  ?  ” 

“Aisy,  sir,  take  it  aisy.  Maybe  you’d  rather  run  like 
a  rat  into  a  trap.  Cowards  ?  Well,  pozzible,  pozzible. 
There’s  nothing  like  having  a  wife  and  a  few  childers  for 
making  a  brave  chap  into  a  bit  of  a  skunk.  But  we’ll  lave 
‘cowards'  alone  if  you  plaze.” 

Quilleash  made  a  dignified  sweep  of  the  back  of  his  hand, 
while  the  other  men  said,  “  Better,  better.” 

“Why  have  you  brought  me  here  ?”  said  Dan. 

“  There  isn’t  a  living  sowl  knows  where  you  are,  and 
when  they  find  you’re  missing  at  the  Castle  they’ll  say 
you’ve  thought  better  of  it  and  escaped.” 

“  Why  have  you  brought  me  here  ?  ”  Dan  repeated. 

“The  Whitehaven  boat  left  Ramsey  after  we  dropped 
anchor  in  the  bay  last  night,  and  they’ll  say  you’ve  gone 
off  to  England.” 

**  Tell  me  why  you  have  brought  me  to  this  place.” 


THE  DEEMSTE'k.  ±t>$ 

(t  We  are  alone  and  can  do  anything  we  like  with  you, 
and  nobody  a  ha’p’orth  the  wiser.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  ” 

Then  they  told  him  of  the  alternative  of  life  or  death* 
There  was  nothing  against  him  but  his  own  confession.  If 
he  but  held  his  tongue  there  was  not  enough  evidence  to 
hang  a  cat.  Let  him  only  promise  to  plead  “Not  guilty  ” 
when  the  trial  came  on,  and  they  were  ready  to  go  back 
with  him  and  stand  beside  him.  If  not - 

“  What  then  ?  ”  Dan  asked. 

“Then  we’ll  be  forced - ”  said  Quilleash,  and  he 

stopped. 

“  Well?” 

“I’m  saying  we’ll  be  forced - ”  He  stopped  again. 

“  Out  with  it,  man  alive,”  Teare  broke  in — “  forced  to 
shoot  him  like  a  dog.” 

“Well,  that’s  only  spakin’  the  truth  anyway,”  said  Quil¬ 
leash,  quietly. 

Davy  Fayle  leapt  up  from  the  fire  with  a  cry  of  horror. 
Bat  Dan  was  calm  and  resolute. 

“  Men,  you  don’t  know  what  you’re  asking.  I  cannot  do 

it.” 

“Aisy  sir,  aisy,  and  think  agen.  You  see  we’re  in  if 
you’re  in,  and  who’s  to  know  who’s  deepest  ?” 

“  God  knows  it ,  and  he  will  never  allow  you  to  suffer.” 

“  We’ve  childers  and  wives  looking  to  us,  and  who  can 
tell  how  they’d  fend  in  the  world  if  we  were  gone  ?  ” 

“  You’re  brave  fellows,  and  I’m  sorry  for  the  name  I  gave 
you.” 

“Shoo!  Lave  that  alone.  Maybe  we  spoke  back.  Let’s 
come  to  the  fac’s.” 

They  stated  their  case  again  and  with  calm  deliberation. 
He  asked  how  it  could  mend  their  case  if  his  life  was  taken. 
They  answered  him  that  they  would  go  back  and  surrender, 
and  stand  their  trial  and  be  acquitted.  Those  four  men 
were  as  solemn  a  tribunal  as  ever  a  man  stood  before  for 
life  or  death.  Not  a  touch  of  passion,  hardly  a  touch  of 
warmth,  disturbed  their  rude  sense  of  justice. 

“We’re  innocent,  but  we’re  in  it,  and  if  you  stand  to  it 
we  must  stand  to  it,  and  what’s  the  use  of  throwing  your 
life  away  ?  ”  * 

Dan  looked  into  their  haggard  faces  without  wavering. 
He  had  gone  too  far  to  go  back  now.  But  he  was  deeply 
moved. 

“Men,”  he  said,  “I  wish  to  God  I  could  do  what  you 


THE  DEEMSTElt. 


£64 

ask,  but  I  cannot,  and,  besides,  the  Almighty  will  not  let 
any  harm  come  to  you.” 

There  wras  a  pause,  and  then  old  Quilleash  said  with 
quiet  gravity,  “  I’m  for  religion  myself,  and  singing  hymns 
at  whiles,  and  maybe  a  bit  of  a  spell  at  the  ould  Book,  but 

when  it  comes  to  trusting  for  life,  d - d  if  I  don’t  look 

for  summat  substantial.” 

As  little  was  their  stubborn  purpose  to  be  disturbed  by 
spiritual  faith  as  Dan’s  resolution  was  to  be  shaken  by 
bodily  terrors.  They  gave  him  as  long  to  decide  as  it  took 
a  man  to  tell  a  hundred.  The  counting  was  done  by  Teare 
amid  dead  silence  of  the  others. 

Then  it  was  that,  thinking  rapidly,  Dan  saw  the  whole 
terrible  issue.  His  mind  went  back  to  the  visit  of  the  Bish¬ 
op  to  the  castle,  and  to  the  secret  preparations  that  had 
been  made  for  his  own  escape.  He  remembered  that  the 
sumner  had  delivered  up  his  keys  to  the  Bishop,  and  that 
the  Bishop  had  left  the  door  of  the  cell  open.  In  a  quick 
glance  at  the  facts  he  saw  but  too  plainly  that  if  he  never 
returned  to  take  his  trial  it  would  be  the  same  to  his  father 
as  if  he  had  accepted  the  means  of  escape  that  had  been 
offered  him.  The  Bishop,  guilty  in  purpose,  but  innocent 
in  fact,  would  then  be  the  slave  of  any  scoundrel  who  could 
learn  of  his  design.  Though  his  father  had  abandoned  his 
purpose,  he  would  seem  to  have  pursued  it,  and  the  peo¬ 
ple  whom  he  had  bribed  to  help  him  would  but  think  that 
he  had  used  other  instruments.  There  could  be  only  one 
explanation  of  his  absence — that  he  escaped  ;  only  one 
means  of  escape — the  Bishop ;  only  one  way  of  saving  the 
Bishop  from  unmerited  and  life-long  obloquy — returning 
to  his  trial ;  and  only  one  condition  of  going  back  alive- 
promising  to  plead  “ Not  guilty”  to  the  charge  of  causing 
the  death  of  Ewan. 

It  was  an  awful  conflict  of  good  passions  with  passions 
that  were  not  bad.  At  one  moment  the  sophistry  took 
hold  of  him  that,  as  his  promise  was  being  extorted  by 
bodily  threats,  it  could  not  be  binding  on  his  honor ;  that 
he  might  give  the  men  the  word  they  wanted,  go  back  tc 
save  his  father,  and  finally  act  at  the  trial  as  he  knew  tc 
be  best.  But  at  the  next  moment  in  his  mind’s  eye  he  saw 
himself  in  the  prisoner’s  dock  by  the  side  of  these  five 
brave  fellows,  all  standing  for  their  lives,  all  calmly  trust* 
ing  in  his  promise,  and  he  heard  himself  giving  the  plea 
that  might  send  them  to  their  deaths.  Better  any  conse¬ 
quences  than  such  treachery.  Truth  it  must  he  at  all  j 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


265 


costs  ;  truth  to  them  and  to  himself.  And  as  for  the  Bish¬ 
op,  when  did  the  Almighty  ask  for  such  poor  help  as  the 
lie  of  a  blood-stained  criminal  to  satje  the  honor  of  a  man 
of  God  ? 

It  was  a  terrible  crisis  ef  emotion,  but  it  was  brief. 
The  counting  ended,  and  Quilleash  called  for  the  answer. 

“No,  I  cannot  do  it — God  forgive  me,  I  wish  I  could,” 
said  Dan,  in  a  burst  of  impatience. 

It  was  said.  The  men  made  no  reply  to  it.  There  was 
awful  quiet  among  them.  They  began  to  cast  lots.  Five 
copper  coins  of  equal  size,  one  of  them  marked  with  a 
cross  scratched  with  the  point  of  a  nail,  they  put  into  the 
bag.  One  after  one  they  dipped  a  hand  and  drew  out  a 
coin,  and  every  man  kept  his  fist  clenched  till  all  had  drawn. 
The  lad  was  not  for  joining,  but  the  men  threatened  him, 
and  he  yielded.  Then  all  hands  were  opened  together. 

The  lot  had  fallen  to  Davy  Fayle.  When  he  saw  this, 
his  simple  face  whitened  visibly  and  his  lip  lagged  very 
low.  Old  Quilleash  handed  him  the  gun,  and  he  took  it 
in  a  listless  way,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  was  intended. 

“What’s  goin’  doing  ?  ”  he  asked  vacantly. 

The  men  told  him  that  it  was  for  him  to  do  it. 

“Do  what?”  he  asked,  dazed  and  stupid. 

Shamefully,  and  with  a  touch  of  braggadocio,  they  told 
what  he  had  to  do,  and  then  his  vacant  face  became  sud¬ 
denly  charged  with  passion,  and  he  made  a  shriek  of  ter¬ 
ror  and  let  the  gun  fall.  Quilleash  picked  the  gun  from 
the  ground  and  thrust  it  back  into  Davy’s  hand. 

“  You’ve  got  to  do  it,”  he  said  ;  “  the  lot’s  fallen  to  you, 
and  it’s  bad  work  flying  in  the  face  of  fate.” 

At  first  Davy  cried  that  nothing  on  God’s  earth  would 
make  him  do  it ;  but  suddenly  he  yielded,  took  the  gun 
quickly,  and  was  led  to  his  place  three  or  four  paces  in 
front  of  where  Dan  stood  with  his  arms  bound  at  his  sides, 
his  face  of  an  ashy  whiteness  and  his  eyes  fearful  to  look 
upon. 

“  I  can’t  kill  him  while  he’s  tied  up  like  that,”  said 
Davy.  “  Loose  him,  and  then  I’ll  shoot.” 

The  men  had  been  startled  by  Davy’s  sudden  acquies¬ 
cence,  but  now  they  understood  it.  Not  by  so  obvious  a 
ruse  were  they  to  be  deceived.  They  knew  full  well  that 
Dan  as  a  free  man  was  a  match  for  all  four  of  them 
unarmed. 

-f  You’re  meaning  to  fire  over  his  head,”  they  said  to 
Davy  ;  and  carried  away  by  his  excitement,  and  without. 


266 


THE  DEEMSTER , 


art  to  conceal  his  intention,  the  lad  cried  hysterically; 
*  that’s  the  truth,  and  so  I  am.” 

The  men  put  their  heads  together,  and  there  was  some 
hurried  whispering.  At  the  next  minute  they  had  la,*i 
hold  of  Davy,  bound  him  as  Dan  was  bound,  and  put  him 
to  stand  at  Dan’s  side.  This  they  did  with  the  thought 
that  Davy  was  now  Dan’s  accomplice. 

Then  again  they  cast  lots  as  before.  This  time  the  lot 
fell  to  Quilleash.  He  took  his  stand  where  the  lad  had 
stood,  and  put  the  trigger  of  the  gun  at  cock. 

“Men,”  he  said,  “if  we  don’t  take  this  man’s  life  noth¬ 
ing  will  hould  him  but  he’ll  take  ours  ;  and  it’s  our  right  to 
protect  ourselves,  and  the  ould  Book  will  uphold  us.  It 
isn’t  murder  we’re  at,  but  justice,  and  Lord  A’mighty  ha' 
massy  on  their  sowls  !  ” 

“  Give  him  another  chance,”  said  Teare,  and  Quilleash, 
nothing  loath,  put  his  question  again.  Dan,  with  a  glance 
at  Davy,  answered  as  before,  with  as  calm  a  voice,  though 
his  face  was  blanched,  and  his  eyes  stood  out  from  their 
sockets,  and  his  lips  and  nostrils  quivered. 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  then  down  on  their  knees 
behind  Quilleash  fell  the  three  men,  Crennell,  Corkell, 
and  Teare.  “  Lord  ha’  massy  on  their  sowls !  ”  they 
echoed,  and  Quilleash  raised  the  gun. 

Never  a  word  more  did  Dan  say,  and  never  aery  or  a 
sign  came  from  Davy  Fayle.  But  Quilleash  did  not  fire. 
He  paused  and  listened,  and  turning  about  he  said,  in  an 
altered  tone,  “  Where’s  the  horse  ?  ” 

The  men  lifted  their  heads  and  pointed,  without  speak¬ 
ing,  to  where  the  horse  was  tethered  by  the  doorway. 
Quilleash  listened  with  head  aslant.  “Then whose  foot  is 
that  ?  ”  he  said. 

The  men  leapt  to  their  feet.  Teare  was  at  the  doorway 
in  an  instant.  “  God  A’mighty,  they’re  on  us  !  ”  he  said  in 
an  affrighted  whisper. 

Then  two  of  the  others  looked,  and  saw  that  from  every 
side  the  coroner  and  his  men  were  closing  in  upon  them. 
They  could  recognize  every  man,  though  the  nearest  was 
still  half  a  mile  away.  Fora  moment  they  stared  blankly  in¬ 
to  each  other’s  faces,  and  asked  themselves  what  was  to  be 
done.  In  that  moment  every  good  and  bad  quality  seemed 
to  leap  to  their  faces.  Corkell  and  Crennell,  seeing  them- 
selves  outnumbered,  fell  to  a  bout  of  hysterical  weeping. 
Teare,  a  fellow  of  sterner  stuff,  without  pity  or  ruth,  see¬ 
ing  no  danger  for  them  if  Dan  were  out  of  sight,  was  for 


THE  DEEMSTER 


finishing  in  a  twinkling  what  they  had  begun — shooting 
Dan,  flinging  him  into  the  loft  above,  down  the  shaft  out¬ 
side,  or  into  a  manure-hole  at  the  doorway,  that  was  full 
of  slimy  filth  and  was  now  half-frozen  over. 

Quilleash  alone  kept  his  head,  and  when  Teare  had 
spoken  the  old  man  said,  No,  and  set  his  lip  firm  and 
hard.  Then  Dan  himself,  no  less  excited  than  the  men 
themselves,  called  and  asked  how  many  they  were  that 
were  coming.  Crennell  told  him  nine — seven  men  and 
the  coroner,  and  another — it  might  be  a  woman — on  a 
horse. 

“  Eight  men  are  not  enough  to  take  six  of  us,”  said 
Dan.  “  Here,  cut  my  rope  and  Davy's — quick.” 

When  the  men  heard  that,  and  saw  by  the  light  of 
Dan’s  eyes  that  he  meant  it,  and  that  he  whose  blood  they 
had  all  but  spilled  was  ready  to  stand  side  by  side  with 
them  and  throw  in  his  lot  with  their  lot,  they  looked 
stupidly  into  each  other’s  eyes,  and  could  say  nothing. 
But  in  another  breath  the  evil  spirit  of  doubt  had  taken 
hold  of  them,  and  Teare  was  laughing  bitterly  in  Dan’s 
face. 

Crennell  looked  out  at  the  doorway  again.  “They’re 
running,  we’re  lost  men,”  he  said  ;  and  once  more  he  set 
up  his  hysterical  weeping. 

“  Dowse  that,”  said  Quilleash;  “where’s  your  trustin’ 
now  ?  ” 

“  Here,  Billy,”  said  Dan  eagerly,  “  cut  the  lad’s  rope 
and  get  into  the  loft,  every  man  of  you.” 

Without  waiting  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  this 
advice,  realizing  nothing  but  that  the  shed  was  surrounded 
and  escape  impossible,  two  of  them,  Crennell  and  Corkell, 
clambered  up  the  ladder  to  the  loft.  Old  Quilleash,  wTho 
from  the  first  moment  of  the  scare  had  not  budged  an 
inch  from  his  place  on  the  floor,  stood  there  still  with  the 
gun  in  his  hand.  Then  Dan,  thinking  to  free  himself 
by  burning  one  strand  of  the  rope  that  bound  him,  threw 
himself  down  on  his  knees  by  the  fij£e  of  gorse  and  wood, 
and  held  himself  over  it  until  one  shoulder  and  arm  and  part 
of  his  breast  were  in  the  flame.  For  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  if,  bound  as  he  was,  he  must  thrust  half  his  body  into 
the  fire,  and  roll  in  it,  before  the  rope  that  tied  him  would 
ignite.  But  at  the  next  moment  he  had  leaped  to  his  feet 
with  a  mighty  effort,  and  the  rope  was  burning  over  his 
arm. 

At  that  same  moment  the  coroner  and  the  seven  men, 


THE  DKEMSTE& 


268 

with  Mona  riding  behind  them,  came  up  the  doorway  of 
the  shed.  There  they  drew  up  in  consternation. 
sight  on  earth  was  less  like  that  they  had  looked  to  see 
than  the  sight  they  then  beheld. 

There,  in  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke,  was  Davy  Fayle, 
still  bound  and  helpless,  pale  and  speechless  with  affright ; 
and  there  was  Dan,  also  bound,  and  burning  over  one 
shoulder  as  if  the  arm  itself  were  afire,  and  straining  his 
great  muscles  to  break  the  rope  that  held  him.  Quilleash 
was  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and 
his  gun  was  in  his  hands.  Teare  was  on  the  first  rung  of 
-the  wall-ladder,  and  the  two  white  faces  of  Corkell  and 
Crennell  were  peering  down  from  the  trap-hole  above. 

‘‘What's  all  this  ?”  said  the  coroner. 

Then  Teare  dropped  back  from  the  ladder  and  pointed 
at  Dan  and  said,  “We  caught  him  and  were  taking  him 
back  to  you,  sir.  Look,  that's-  the  way  we  strapped  him. 
But  he  was  trying  to  burn  the  rope  and  give  us  the  slip.” 

Dan's  face  turned  black  at  that  word  of  treachery,  and 
a  hoarse  cry  came  from  his  throat. 

“Is  it  true  ?”  said  the  coroner,  and  his  lip  curled  as  he 
turned  to  Dan.  Davy  Fayle  shouted  vehemently  that  it 
was  a  lie,  but  Dan,  shaking  visibly  from  head  to  foot,  an¬ 
swered  quietly  and  said,  “  I'll  not  say  no,  coroner.” 

At  that  Quilleash  stepped  out.  “But  I'll  say  no,”  he 
said,  firmly.  “  He's  a  brave  man,  he  is  ;  and  maybe  I'm 

on’y  an  ould  rip,  but  d - me  if  I'm  goin'  to  lie  like  that 

for  nobody — no,  not  to  save  my  own  sowl.” 

Then  in  his  gruff  tones,  sometimes  faltering,  sometimes 
breaking  into  deep  sobs,  and  then  rising  to  deeper  oaths, 
the  old  fellow  told  all.  And  that  night  all  six  of  them — 
Dan,  the  four  fishermen,  and  the  lad  Davy — were  lodged 
in  the  prison  at  Castle  Rushen. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  COURT  OF  GENERAL  GAOL  DELIVERY. 

From  Christmas-tide  onward  through  the  dark  months, 
until  a  “dream  of  spring”  came  once  again  on  the  slum¬ 
bering  face  of  winter,  the  six  men  lay  in  Castle  Rushen. 
Rumors  from  within  the  gray  walls  of  the  gaol  told  that 
some  of  them  were  restive  under  their  punishment,  and 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*) 

that  the  spirits  of  others  sank  under  in,  but  that  Dan  bore 
up  with  the  fortitude  of  resignation,  and,  though  prone  to 
much  sadness,  with  even  the  cheerfulness  of  content.  It 
was  the  duty  of  each  man  to  take  his  turn  at  cleaning  the 
cell,  and  it  was  said  that  Dan’s  turn  seemed  by  his  own 
counting  to  come  frequently.  Reproaches  he  bore  with 
humility,  and  on  one  occasion  he  took  a  blow  from  Cren- 
nell,  who  was  small  of  stature  and  had  a  slight  limp  in  one 
leg.  Constant  bickerings  were  rife  among  them,  and  Dan 
was  often  their  subject  of  quarrel,  and  still  oftener  their 
victim  ;  but  they  had  cheerful  hours,  too,  and  sometimes 
a  laugh  together. 

Such  were  some  of  the  reports  that  made  gossip  outside, 
.where  public  curiosity  and  excitement  grew  keener  as  the 
half-yearly  sitting  of  the  Court  of  General  Gaol  Delivery 
drew  nearer.  Copper  riots  and  felonies  of  all  descriptions, 
disputes  as  to  tithe,  and  arbitrations  as  to  the  modes  of 
counting  the  herrings,  sank  out  of  sight  in  prospect  of  the 
trial  of  Dan  and  his  crew.  From  Point  of  Ayre  to  the 
Calf  of  Man  it  was  the  engrossing  topic,  and  none  living 
could  remember  a  time  when  public  feeling  ran  so  high. 
The  son  of  the  Bishop  was  to  be  tried,  for  the  murder  of 
the  son  of  the  Deemster,  and  a  bigger  issue  could  no  man 
conceive.  Variable  enough  was  the  popular  sympathy — 
sometimes  with  Dan  sometimes  against  him,  always  influ¬ 
enced  by  what  way  the  wave  of  feeling  flowed  with  regard 
to  the  Deemster  and  the  Bishop.  And  closely  were  these 
two  watched  at  every  turn. 

The  Deemster  showed  uncommon  animation,  and  even 
some  sprightliness.  He  was  more  abroad  than  at  any 
time  for  fifteen  years  before,  and  was  usually  accompanied 
by  Jarvis  Kerruish.  His  short  laugh  answered  oftener  to 
his  own  wise  witticisms  than  at  any  time  since  the  coming 
to  the  island  of  his  brother,  the  Bishop  ;  but  people  whis¬ 
pered  that  his  good  spirits  did  not  keep  him  constant 
company  within  the  walls  of  his  own  house.  There  his 
daughter,  Mona,  still  soft  as  the  morning  dew  and  all  but 
as  silent,  sat  i  mch  alone.  She  had  grown  “wae  ”  as  folk 
said,  rarely  being  seen  outside  the  gates  of  Ballamona, 
never  being  heard  to  laugh,  and  showing  little  interest  in 
life  beyond  the  crib  of  her  foster-child,  Ewan’s  orphaned 
daughter.  And  people  remembered  her  mother,  how  si¬ 
lent  she  had  been,  and  how  patient,  and  how  like  to  what 
Mona  was,  and  they  said  now,  as  they  had  said  long  ag<\ 
u  She’s  going  down  the  steep  places.” 


tfO 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


The  Bishop  had  kept  close  to  Bishop’s  Court.  Turning: 
night  into  day,  and  day  into  night,  or  knowing  no  times 
and  seasons,  he  had  been  seen  to  wander  at  all  hours  up 
and  down  the  glen.  If  any  passed  him  as  he  crossed  the 
road  from  the  glen  back  to  the  house  he  had  seemed  not 
to  see.  His  gray  hair  had  grown  snowy  white,  his  tall  fig¬ 
ure  drooped  heavily  from  his  shoulders,  and  his  gait  had 
lost  all  its  spring.  Stricken  suddenly  into  great  age,  he 
had  wandered  about  mumbling  to  himself,  or  else  quite 
silent.  The  chapel  on  his  episcopal  demesne  he  had 
closed  from  the  time  of  the  death  of  Ewan,  his  chaplain. 
Thus  had  he  borne  himself  shut  out  from  the  world,  until 
the  primrose  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  cuckoo  had  be¬ 
gun  to  call.  Then  as  suddenly  he  underwent  a  change. 
Opening  the  chapel  at  Bishop’s  Court  he  conducted  ser¬ 
vice  there  every  Sunday  afternoon.  The  good  souls  of  the 
parish  declared  that  never  before  had  he  preached  wit& 
such  strength  and  fervor,  though  the  face  over  the  pulpit 
looked  ten  long  years  older  than  on  the  Christmas  morn¬ 
ing  when  the  ’longshore  men  brought  up  their  dread  bur¬ 
den  from  the  Mooragh.  Convocation  was  kept  on  Whit- 
Tuesday  as  before,  and  the  Bishop  spoke  with  calm  and 
grave  power.  His  clergy  said  he  had  gathered  strength 
from  solitude,  and  fortitude  from  many  days  spent  alone, 
as  in  the  wilderness,  with  his  Maker.  Here  and  there  a 
wise  one  among  his  people  said  it  might  look  better  of 
him  to  take  the  beam  out  of  his  own  eye  than  to  be  so 
very  zealous  in  pointing  out  the  motes  in  the  eyes  of  oth¬ 
ers.  The  world  did  not  stand  still,  though  public  interest 
was  in  suspense,  and  now  and  again  some  girl  was  pre¬ 
sented  for  incontinence  or  some  man  for  drunkenness. 
Then  it  was  noticed  that  the  censures  of  the  Church  had 
begun  to  fall  on  the  evil-doer  with  a  great  tenderness,  and 
this  set  the  wise  ones  whispering  afresh  that  someone  was 
busy  at  sweeping  the  path  to  his  own  door,  and  also  that 
the  black  ox  never  trod  on  his  own  hoof. 

The  day  of  the  trial  came  in  May.  It  was  to  be  a  day  of 
doom,  but  the  sun  shone  with  its  own  indifference  to  the 
big  little  affairs  of  men.  The  spring  had  been  a  dry  one, 
and  over  the  drought  came  heat.  From  every  corner  of 
the  island  the  people  trooped  off  under  the  broiling  sun  to 
Castletown.  The  Court  of  General  Gaol  Delivery  was 
held  in  Castle  Rushen,  in  the  open  square  that  formed  the 
gateway  to  the  prison  chapel,  under  the  clear  sky,  without 
shelter  from  any  weather.  There  Uie  narrow  space  allotted 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


«7t 


to  spectators  was  thronged  with  hot  faces  under  beavers, 
mutches,  and  sun-bonnets.  The  passages  from  the  castle 
gate  on  the  quay  were  also  thronged  by  crowds  who  could 
not  see,  but  tried  to  hear.  From  the  lancet  windows  of  the 
castle  that  overlooked  the  gateway  eager  faces  peered  out, 
and  on  the  lead  flat  above  the  iron  staircase  and  over  the 
great  clock-tower  were  companies  of  people  of  both  sexes, 
who  looked  down  and  even  listened  when  they  could.  The 
windows  of  the  houses  around  the  castle  gate  were  thrown 
up  for  spectators  who  sat  on  the  sills.  In  the  rigging  of 
the  brigs  and  luggers  that  lay  in  the  harbor,  close  under 
the  castle  walls,  sailors  had  perched  themselves  to  look  o#i, 
and  crack  jokes  and  smoke.  Nearly  the  whole  floor  of  the 
market-place  was  thronged,  but  under  the  cross,  where 
none  could  see  or  hear,  an  old  woman  had  set  up  ninepins, 
tipped  with  huge  balls  of  toffee,  and  a  score  of  tipsy  fellows 
were  busy  with  them  amid  much  laughter  and  noise.  A 
line  of  older  men,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  were 
propped  against  the  castle  wall ;  and  a  young  woman  from 
Ballasalla,  reputed  to  be  a  prophetess,  was  standing  on  the 
steps  of  the  cross,  and  calling  on  the  careless  to  take  note 
that,  while  they  cursed  and  swore  and  forgot  their  Maker, 
six  men  not  twenty  yards  away  were  on  the  brink  of  their 
graves. 

The  judges  were  the  Governor  of  the  island  (who  was 
robed),  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  the  two  Deemsters  (who 
wore  wigs  and  gowns),  the  Water  Bailiff,  the  Bishop,  the 
Archdeacon,  the  Vicars-General,  and  the  twenty-four  Keys. 
All  these  sat  on  a  raised  platform  of  planks.  The  senior 
and  presiding  Deemster  (Thorkell  Mylrea),  who  was  the 
mouthpiece  of  the  court,  was  elevated  on  a  central  dais. 

Thorkell  was  warm,  eager,  and  even  agitated.  When 
the  Bishop  took  his  seat,  amid  a  low  murmur  of  the  spec¬ 
tators,  his  manner  was  calm,  and  his  quiet  eyes  seemed  not 
to  look  into  the  faces  about  him. 

The  prisoners  were  brought  in  from  the  cell  that  opened 
to  the  left  of  the  gateway.  They  looked  haggard  and  worn, 
but  were  not  wanting  in  composure.  Dan,  towering  above 
the  rest  in  his  great  stature,  held  his  head  low  ;  his  cheeks 
were  ashy,  but  his  lips  were  firm.  By  his  side,  half  cling¬ 
ing  to  his  garments,  was  the  lad  Davy,  and  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line  was  old  Quilleash,  with  resolution  on  his 
weather-beaten  face.  Crennell  and  Corkell  were  less  at 
ease,  but  Teare’s  firm-set  figure  and  hard-drawn  mouth 
Showed  the  dogged  determination  of  a  man  who  meant  that 


2 7 2 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


day  to  sell  his  life  dear.  Sixty-eight  men  were  present, 
summoned  from  the  seventeen  parishes  of  the  island  to 
compose  a  jury  of  twelve  to  be  selected  by  the  prisoners. 
Over  all  was  the  burning  sun  of  a  hot  day  in  May. 

When  the  officer  of  the  court  had  made  the  presentment, 
and  was  going  on  to  ask  the  prisoners  to  plead,  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  were  suddenly  interrupted.  The  steward  of  the 
spiritual  barony  of  the  Bishop,  now  sole  baron  of  the  isl¬ 
and,  rose  to  a  point  of  law.  One  of  the  six  prisoners  who 
were  indicted  for  felony  was  a  tenant  of  the  Bishop’s  bar¬ 
ony,  and  as  such  was  entitled  to  trial  not  by  the  civil 
powers  of  the  island,  but  by  a  jury  of  his  barony,  presided 
over  by  the  proper  president  of  his  barony.  The  prisoner 
in  question  was  Daniel  Mylrea,  and  for  him  the  steward 
claimed  the  privilege  of  a  remand  until  he  could  be 
brought  up  for  trial  before  the  court  of  the  lord  of  the 
barony  under  which  he  lived. 

This  claim  created  a  profound  sensation  in  the  court. 
Dan  himself  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  face  had  a  look  of  pain. 
When  asked  by  the  Deemster  if  the  claim  was  put  forward 
by  his  wish  or  sanction  he  simply  shook  his  head.  The 
steward  paid  no  attention  to  this  repudiation.  “  This 
court,”  he  said,  “  holds  no  jurisdiction  over  a  tenant  of  the  , 
Bishop’s  barony;”  and  forthwith  he  put  in  a  document  - 
showing  that  Daniel  Mylrea  was  tenant  of  a  farm  on  the  , 
episcopal  demesne,  situate  partly  in  Kirk  Ballaugh  and 
partly  in  Kirk  Michael. 

The  Deemster  knew  full  well  that  he  was  powerless.  - 
Nevertheless  he  majde  a  rigid  examination  of  the  prisoner’s 
lease,  and,  finding  the  document  flawless,  he  put  the  point 
of  law  to  the  twenty-four  Keys  with  every  hampering  diffi¬ 
culty.  But  the  court  was  satisfied  as  to  the  claim,  and 
allowed  it.  “The  prisoner,  Daniel  Mylrea,  stands  re¬ 
manded  for  trial  at  the  court  of  his  barony,”  said  the 
Deemster,  in  a  tone  of  vexation  ;  “and  at  that  trial,”  he 
added,  with  evident  relish,  “the  president  of  the  barony 
shall  be,  as  by  law  appointed,  assisted  by  a  Deemster.” 

Dan  was  removed,  his  name  was  struck  out  of  the  in¬ 
dictment,  and  the  trial  of  the  five  fishermen  was  proceeded 
with.  They  pleaded  “  Not  guilty.”  The  Attorney-General 
prosecuted,  stating  the  facts  so  far  as  they  concerned  the 
remaining  prisoners,  and  reflecting  at  the  evidence  against 
the  prisoner  who  was  remanded.  He  touched  on  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  the  sailcloth,  and  then  on  the  mystery  attaching 
to  a  certain  bundle  of  clothes,  belts,  and  daggers  that  had 


StjiB  deemster* 


m 

been  found  in  the  prison  at  Peel  Castle.  At  this  reference 
the  steward  of  the  barony  objected,  as  also  against  the  de¬ 
positions  that  inculpated  Dan.  The  witnesses  were  fewer 
than  at  the  Deemster’s  inquest,  and  they  had  nothing  to 
•jay  that  directly  criminated  the  fishermen.  Brief  and  un¬ 
interesting  the  trial  turned  out  to  be  with  the  chief  pris¬ 
oner  withdrawn,  and  throughout  the  proceedings  the  Deem¬ 
ster’s  vexation  was  betrayed  by  his  thin,  sharp,  testy  voice. 
Some  efforts  were  made  to  prove  that  Dan’s  disappearance 
from  Peel  Castle  had  been  brought  about  by  the  Bishop- 
but  the  steward  of  the  barony  guarded  so  zealously  the 
privileges  of  the  ecclesiastical  courts,  that  nothing  less 
than  an  open  and  unseemly  rupture  between  the  powers 
of  Church  and  State  seemed  imminent  when  the  Deemster, 
losing  composure,  was  for  pressing  the  irrelevant  inquiry. 
Moreover,  the  Keys,  who  sat  as  arbiters  of  points  of  law 
and  to  “ pass’’  the  verdict  of  the  jury,  were  clearly  against 

the  Deemster.  .  , 

The  trial  did  not  last  an  hour.  When  the  jury  was  ready 
to  return  a  verdict,  the  Deemster  asked  in  Manx,  as  by 
ancient  usage,  “Vod  y  fer-carree  soie?”  (May  the  Man 
of  the  Chancel  [the  Bishop]  sit  ?).  And  the  foreman  an¬ 
swered,  “  Fod  ”  (He  may)  ;  the  ecclesiastics  remained  in 
their  seats;  a  verdict  of  “Not  guilty”  was  returned,  and 
straightway  the  five  fishermen  were  acquitted. 

Later  the  same  day  the  Deemster  vacated  his  seat  on  the 
dais,  and  then  the  Bishop  rose  and  took  it  with  great 
solemnity.  That  the  Bishop  himself  should  sit  to  try  his 
own  son,  as  he  must  have  tried  any  other  felon  who  was  a 
tenant  of  his  barony,  made  a  profound  impression  among 
the  spectators.  The  Archdeacon,  who  had  hoped  to  pre¬ 
side,  looked  appalled.  The  Deemster  sat  below,  and  on 
either  side  were  the  ecclesiastics,  who  had  claimed  their 
right  to  sit  as  judges  in  the  civil  court.  Another  jury,  a 
jury  of  the  barony,  was  empanelled.  The  sergeant  of  the 
barony  brought  Dan  to  the  bar.  The  prisoner  was  still 
very  calm,  and  his  lips  were  as  firm,  though  his  face  was 
as  white  and  his  head  held  as  low  as  before.  When  a  pre¬ 
sentment  was  read  over  to  him,  charging  him  with  causing 
the  death  of  Ewan  Mylrea,  deacon  in  holy  orders,  and  he 
was  asked  to  plead,  he  lifted  his  eyes  slowly,  and  answeied 
in  a  clear,  quiet,  sonorous  voice,  that  echoed  from  the  high 
walls  of  the  gateway,  and  was  heard  by  the  people  on  the 
clock  tower,  “  Guilty.” 

As  evidence  had  been  taken  at  the  Deemster  s  inquest 
18 


*74 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


no  witnesses  were  now  heard.  The  steward  of  the  barony 
presented.  He  dwelt  on  the  prisoner’s  special  and  awful 
criminality,  in  so  far  as  he  was  the  son  of  the  Bishop, 
taught  from  his  youth  up  to  think  of  human  life  as  a  holy 
thing,  and  bound  by  that  honored  alliance  to  a  righteous 
way  in  life.  Then  he  touched  on  the  peculiar  duty  of 
right  living  in  one  who  held  the  office  of  captain  of  his 
parish,  sworn  to  preserve  order  and  to  protect  life. 

When  the  steward  had  appended  to  his  statement  certain 
commonplaces  of  extenuation  based  on  the  plea  of  Guilty, 
the  Deemster,  amid  a  dead  hush  among  the  spectators,  put 
questions  to  the  prisoner  which  were  intended  to  elicit  an 
explanation  of  his  motive  in  the  crime,  and  of  the  circum¬ 
stances  attending  it.  To  these  questions  Dan  made  no  an¬ 
swer. 

“ Answer  me,  sir,”  the  Deemster  demanded,  but  Dan 
was  still  silent.  Then  the  Deemsters  wrath  mastered 
him. 

“  It  ill  becomes  a  man  in  your  position  to  refuse  the  only 
amends  that  you  can  make  to  justice  for  the  pains  to  which 
you  have  put  this  court  and  another.” 

It  was  an  idle  outburst.  Dan’s  firm  lip  was  immovable. 
He  looked  steadily  into  the  Deemster’s  face,  and  said  not 
a  word. 

The  steward  stepped  in.  “  The  prisoner,”  he  said,  “  has 
elected  to  make  the  gravest  of  all  amends  to  justice,”  and 
at  that  there  was  a  deep  murmur  among  the  people. 
“  Nevertheless,  I  could  wish,”  said  the  steward,  “  that  he 
would  also  make  answer  to  the  Deemster’s  question.” 

But  the  prisoner  made  no  sign. 

“  There  is  some  reason  for  thinking  that,  if  all  were 
known,  where  so  much  is  now  hidden,  the  crime  to  which 
the  prisoner  pleads  guilty  would  wear  a  less  grievous  as¬ 
pect.” 

Still  the  prisoner  gave  no  answer. 

“  Come,  let  us  have  done,”  said  the  Deemster,  twisting 
impatiently  in  his  seat.  “  Pronounce  the  sentence,  and  let 
your  sergeant  carry  it  into  effect.” 

The  murmur  among  the  people  grew  to  a  great  commo¬ 
tion,  but  in  the  midst  of  it  the  Bishop  was  seen  t b  rise,  and 
then  a  deep-hush  fell  on  all. 

The  Bishop’s  white  head  was  held  erect,  his  seamed  face 
was  firm  as  it  was  pale,  and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  wa? 
clear  and  full.  “  Daniel  Mylrea,”  he  said,  “  you  have 
pleaded  guilty  to  the  great  crime  of  murder,  The  ser* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


275 


gcant  of  your  barony  will  now  remove  you,  and  on  the 
morning  of  this  day  next  week  he  will  take  you  in  his  safe 
custody  to  the  Tynwald  Hill,  in  the  centre  of  the  island, 
there  in  the  eye  of  light,  and  before  the  faces  of  all  men, 
to  receive  the  dreadful  sentence  of  this  court,  and  to  en¬ 
dure  its  punishment.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

CUT  OFF  FROM  THE  PEOPLE. 

During  the  week  that  followed  the  trial  of  Daniel  Mylrea 
at  the  court  of  his  barony  the  excitement  throughout  the 
island  passed  all  experience  of  public  feeling.  What  was 
to  be  the  sentence  of  the  barony?  This  was  the  one  ques¬ 
tion  everywhere — at  the  inn,  the  mill,  the  smithy,  the 
market-cross,  the  street,  in  the  court-house  ;  and  if  two 
shepherds  hailed  each  other  on  the  mountains  they  asked 
for  the  last  news  from  Peel. 

With  a  silent  acceptance  of  the  idea  that  death  alone 
could  be  the  penalty  of  the  crime  that  had  been  committed, 
there  passed  through  the  people  the  burden,  first  of  a  great 
awe,  and  then  of  a  great  dread  that  any  Christian  man 
should  die  the  death  of  hanging.  Not  for  nearly  two-score 
years  had  the  island  seen  that  horror,  and  old  men  shud¬ 
dered  at  the  memory  of  it. 

Then  it  came  to  be  understood  in  a  vague  way  that  after 
all  Daniel  Mylrea  was  not  to  die.  Whispers  went  from 
mouth  to  mouth  that  old  Quilleash  had  sailed  down  to  the 
Calf  Sound  with  the  Ben-my-Chree,  well  stored  with 
provisions.  In  a  few  days  the  old  salt  returned,  walking 
overland,  preserving  an  air  of  vast  mystery,  and  shaking 
his  head  when  his  gossips  questioned  him.  Then  poor 
human  nature,  that  could  not  bear  to  see  Daniel  Mylrea 
die,  could  not  bear  to  see  him  saved  either,  and  men  who 
had  sworn  in  their  impotent  white  terror  that  never  again 
should  a  gallows  be  built  in  the  island,  lusty  fellows  who 
had  shown  ruth  for  the  first  time,  began  to  show  gall  for 
the  hundredth,  to  nudge,  to  snigger,  and  to  mutter  that 
blood  was  thicker  than  water,  and  there  was  much  be« 
tween  saving  and  doing,  as  the  sayin’  was. 

The  compassion  that  had  been  growing  in  secret  began 
to  struggle  with  the  ungentle  impulses  that  came  of  super* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


stitious  fear.  It  seemed  to  be  true,  as  old  folk  Were  Whis¬ 
pering,  that  Daniel  Mylrea  was  the  Jonah  of  the  island. 
What  had  happened  in  the  first  year  of  his  life  ?  A  pro¬ 
longed  drought  and  a  terrible  famine.  What  was  happen¬ 
ing  now  ?  Another  drought  that  threatened  another  fam¬ 
ine.  And  people  tried  to  persuade  themselves  that  the 
sword  of  the  Lord  was  over  them,  and  that  it  would  only 
rest  and  be  quiet  when  they  had  executed  God’s  judgment 
on  the  guilty  man. 

The  day  of  Tynwald  came,  and  the  week  before  it  had 
passed  like  a  year.  There  was  no  sun,  but  the  heat  waa 
stifling,  the  clouds  hung  low  and  dark  and  hot  as  the  roof 
of  an  open  oven,  the  air  was  sluggish,  and  the  earth  looked 
blue.  Far  across  the  sea  to  the  northwest  there  was  a 
thin  streak  of  fiery  cloud,  and  at  some  moments  there  was 
the  smell  of  a  thunder-storm  in  the  heavy  atmosphere. 
From  north  and  south,  from  east  and  west,  the  people 
trooped  to  Tynwald  Hill.  Never  before  within  the  mem* 
ory  of  living  man  had  so  vast  a  concourse  been  witnessed 
on  that  ancient  ground  of  assembly.  Throughout  the 
island  the  mill-wheel  was  stopped,  the  smithy  fire  was  raked 
xover  with  ashes,  the  plough  lay  in  the  furrow,  the  sheep 
were  turned  out  on  to  the  mountains,  and  men  and  women, 
old  men,  old  women,  and  young  children,  ten  thousand  in 
all,  with  tanned  faces  and  white,  in  sun-bonnets,  mutches, 
and  capes,  and  some  with  cloaks  in  preparation  for  the 
storm  that  was  coming,  drove  in  their  little  springless  carts, 
or  rode  on  their  small  Manx  ponies,  or  trudged  on  foot 
through  the  dusty  roads,  and  over  the  bleached  hillsides 
and  the  parched  Curraghs. 

At  ten  o’clock  the  open  green  that  surrounds  the  hill  of 
Tynwald  was  densely  thronged.  Carts  were  tipped  up  in 
corners,  and  their  stores  of  food  and  drink  were  guarded 
by  a  boy  or  a  woman,  who  sat  on  the  sternboard.  Horses 
were  tethered  to  the  wheels,  or  turned  loose  to  browse  on 
a  common  near  at  hand.  Men  lounged  on  the  green  and 
talked,  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  their  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  or  stood  round  the  Tynwald  Inn,  lifting  pannikins 
to  their  lips,  and  laughing — for  there  was  merriment  among 
them  though  the  work  for  which  they  had  come  together 
was  not  a  merry  one. 

The  mount  itself  was  still  empty,  and  twelve  constables 
were  stationed  about  the  low  wall  that  surrounded  it,  keep¬ 
ing  the  crowd  back.  And  though,  as  the  people  met  and 

mingled,  the  men  talked  of  the  crops  and  of  the  prospect 


THE  DEEMSTEk. 


*11 

for  the  fishing,  and  women  of  the  wool  and  yarn,  and  boys 
tossed  somersaults,  and  young  girls  betook  themselves  to 
girlish  games,  and  girls  of  older  growth  in  bright  nbbons 
to  ogling  and  giggling,  and  though  there  was  some  coarse 
banter  and  coarser  singing,  the  excitement  of  the  crowd, 
beneath  all,  was  deep  and  strong.  At  intervals  there  was  a 
movement  of  the  people  toward  a  church — St.  John’s 
Church,  that  stood  a  little  to  the  east  of  Tynwald — and 
sometimes  a  general  rush  toward  the  gate  that  looked  west¬ 
ward  toward  Peeltown  and  the  sea.  Earlier  in  the  day 
someone  had  climbed  a  mountain  beyond  the  chapel  and 
put  a  light  to  the  dry  gorse  at  the  top,  and  now  the  fire 
smouldered  in  the  den^e  air,  and  set  up  a  long  sinuous 
trail  of  blue  smoke  to  the  empty  vault  of  the  sky.  The 
mountain  was  called  Greeba,  which  is  the  native  word  for 
grief. 

Toward  half-past  ten  old  Paton  Gorry,  the  sumner,  went 
down  the  narrow,  tortuous  steps  that  led  to  the  dungeon  of 
Peel  Castle.  He  carried  fetters  for  the  hands  and  legs  of 
his  prisoner,  and  fixed  them  in  their  places  wfth  nervous 
and  fumbling  fingers.  His  prisoner  helped  him  as  far  as 
might  be,  and  spoke  cheerily  in  answer  to  his  mumbled 
adieu. 

“  I’m  not  going  to  St.  John's,  sir.  I  couldn’t  give  my¬ 
self  lave  for  it,”  the  sumner  muttered  in  a  breaking  voice. 
With  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  Daniel  Mylrc  ^ 
said,  “  God  bless  you,  Paton,”  and  laid  hold  of  the  old 
man’s  hand.  Twenty  times  during  the  week  the  sumner 
had  tried  in  vain  to  prevail  on  the  prisoner  to  explain  the 
circumstances  attending  his  crime,  and  so  earn  the  miti¬ 
gation  of  punishment  which  had  been  partly  promised. 
The  prisoner  had  only  shaken  his  head  in  silence. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  Daniel  Mylrea  was  handed  over 
in  the  guard-room  to  the  sergeant  of  the  barony,  and  Paton 
Gorry’s  duties — the  hardest  that  the  world  had  yet  given, 
him  to  do — were  done. 

The  sergeant  and  the  prisoner  went  out  of  the  castle  and 
crossed  the  narrow  harbor  in  a  boat.  On  the  wooden  jetty, 
near  the  steps  by  which  they  landed,  a  small  open  cart  was 
drawn  up,  and  there  was  a  crowd  of  gaping  faces  about  it. 
The  two  men  got  into  the  cart  and  were  driven  down  the 
quay  toward  the  path  by  the  river  that  led  to  Tynwald  un¬ 
der  the  foot  of  Slieau  Whallin.  As  Jthey  passed  through 
the  town  the  prisoner  was  dimly  conscious  that  white  faces 
looked  out  of  wiad0W6  and  that  small  knots  of  people  were 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


6?* 


gathered  at  the  comers  of  the  alleys.  But  all  this  way 
soon  blotted  out,  and  when  he  came  to  himself  he  was 
driving  under  the  trees,  and  by  the  side  of  the  rumbling 
water.  ' 

All  the  day  preceding  the  prisoner  had  told  .himself  that 
when  his  time  came,  his  great  hour  of  suffering  and  expi¬ 
ation,  he  must  bear  himself  with  fortitude,  abating  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  whole  bitterness  of  the  atonement  he  was  to 
make,  asking  no  quarter,  enduring  all  contumely,  though 
men  jeered  as  he  passed  or  spat  in  his  face.  He  thought 
he  had  counted  the  cost  of  that  trial.  Seven  sleepless 
nights  and  seven  days  of  torment  had  he  given  to  try  his 
spirit  for  that  furnace,  and  he  thought  he  could  go  through 
it  and  not  shrink.  In  his  solitary  hours  he  had  arranged 
his  plans.  While  he  drove  from  Peel  to  St.  John’s  he  was 
to  think  of  nothing  that  would  sap  his  resolution,  and  his 
mind  was  to  be  a  blank.  Then,  as  he  approached  the 
place,  he  was  to  liffhis  eyes  without  fear,  and  not  let  them 
drop  though  their  gaze  fell  on  the  dread  thing  that  must 
have  been  built  there.  And  so,  very  calmly,  silently,  and 
firmly,  he  was  to  meet  the  end  of  all. 

But  now  that  he  was  no  longer  in  the  dungeon  of  the 
prison,  where  despair  might  breed  bravery  in  a  timid  soul, 
but  under  the  open  sky,  where  hope  and  memory  grow 
strong  together,  he  knew,  though  he  tried  to  shut  his 
heart  to  it,  that  his  courage  was  oozing  away.  He  recog¬ 
nized  this  house  and  that  gate,  he  knew  every  turn  of  the 
river — where  the  trout  lurked  and  where  the  eels  sported 
— and  when  he  looked  up  at  the  dun  sky  he  knew  how 
long  it  might  take  for  the  lightning  to  break  through  the 
luminous  dulness  of  the  thunder-cloud  that  hung  over  the 
head  of  Slieau  Whallin.  Do  what  he  would  to  keep  his 
mind  a  blank,  or  to  busy  it  with  trifles  of  the  way,  he 
could  not  help  reflecting  that  he  was  seeing  these  things 
for  the  last  time. 

Then  there  came  a  long  interval  in  which  the  cart 
wherein  he  sat  seemed  to  go  wearily  on,  on,  on,  and  noth¬ 
ing  awakened  his  slumbering  senses.  When  he  recovered 
consciousness  with  a  start  he  knew  that  his  mind  had  been 
busy  with  many  thoughts  such  as  sap  a  man’s  resolution 
and  bring  his  brave  schemes  to  foolishness.  He  had  been 
asking  himself  where  his  father  was  that  day,  where  Mona 
would  be  then,  and  how  deep  their  shame  must  be  at  the 
thought  of  the  death  he  was  to  die.  To  him  his  death  was 
his  expiation,  and  little  had  he  thought  of  the  manner  of 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 


il ;  but  to  them  it  was  disgrace  and  horror.  And  so  he 
shrunk  within  himself.  He  knew  now  that  his  great  pur¬ 
pose  was  drifting  away  like  a  foolish  voice  that  is  emptied 
in  the  air.  Groaning  audibly,  praying  in  broken  snatches 
for  strength  of  spirit,  looking  up  and  around  with  fearful 
eyes,  he  rode  on  and  on,  until  at  length,  before  he  was  yet 
near  the  end  of  his  awful  ride,  the  deep  sound  came  float¬ 
ing  to  him  through  the  air  of  the  voices  of  the  people 
gathered  at  the  foot  of  Tynwald.  It  wras  like  the  sound 
the  sea  makes  as  its  white  breakers  fall  on  some  sharp  reef 
a  mile  away  :  a  deep,  multitudinous  hum  of  many  tongues. 
When  he  lifted  his  head  and  heard  it,  his  pallid  face  be¬ 
came  ashy,  his  whitening  lips  trembled,  his  head  dropped 
back  to  his  breast,  his  fettered  arms  fell  between  his  fet¬ 
tered  legs,  river  and  sky  were  blotted  out  of  his  eyes,  and 
he  knew  that  before  the  face  of  his  death  he  was  no  better 
than  a  poor  broken  coward. 

At  eleven  o’clock  the  crowd  at  Tynwald  had  grown  to 
a  vast  concourse  that  covered  every  foot  of  the  green  with 
a  dense  mass  of  moving  heads.  In  an  enclosed  pathway 
that  connected  the  chapel  with  the  mount  three  carriages 
were  drawn  up.  The  Deemster  sat  in  one  of  them,  and 
his  wizened  face  was  full  of  uncharity.  By  his  side  was 
Jarvis  Kerruish.  On  an  outskirt  of  the  crowd  two  men 
stood  with  a  small  knot  of  people  around  them  ;  they 
were  Quilleash  and  Teare.  The  Ballasalla  prophetess, 
with  glittering  eyes  and  hair  in  ringlets,  was  preaching 
by  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  near  her  were  Corkell  and 
Crennell,  and  they  sung  when  she  sung,  and  while  she 
prayed  they  knelt.  Suddenly  the  great  clamorous  human 
billow  was  moved  by  a  ruffle  of  silence  that  spread  from 
side  to  side,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  deep  hush  the  door  of 
the  chapel  opened,  and  a  line  of  ecclesiastics  came  out  and 
walked  toward  the  mount.  At  the  end  of  the  line  was 
the  Bishop,  bareheaded,  much  bent,  his  face  white  and 
seamed,  his  step  heavy  and  uncertain,  his  whole  figure 
and  carriage  telling  of  the  sword  that  is  too  keen  for  its 
scabbard.  When  the  procession  reached  the  mount  the 
Bishop  ascended  to  the  topmost  round  of  it,  and  on  the 
four  green  ledges  below  him  his  clergy  ranged  them¬ 
selves.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a  subdued 
murmur  among  the  people,  and  at  one  side  of  the  green, 
the  gate  to  the  west,  the  crowd  opened  and  parted,  and 
the  space  widened  and  the  line  lengthened  until  it  reached 
the  foot  of  the  Tynwald,  Then  the  cart  that  brought  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


280 

sergeant  and  his  prisoner  from  the  castle  entered  it  slowly, 
and  drew  up,  and  then,  with  head  and  eyes  down,  like  a 
beast  that  is  struck  to  its  death,  Daniel  Mylrea  dropped 
to  his  feet  on  the  ground.  He  was  clad  in  the  blue  cloth 
of  a  fisherman,  with  a  brown  knitted  guernsey  under  his 
coat,  and  sea-boots  over  his  stockings.  He  stood  in  his 
great  stature  above  the  shoulders  of  the  tallest  of  the  men 
around  him  ;  and  women  who  were  as  far  away  as  the 
door  of  the  inn  could  see  the  seaman's  cap  he  wore.  The 
sergeant  drew  him  up  to  the  foot  of  the  mount,  but  his 
bowed  head  was  never  raised  to  where  the  Bishop  stood 
above  him.  An  all-consuming  shame  sat  upon  him,  and 
around  him  was  the  deep  breathing  of  the  people. 

Presently  a  full,  clear  voice  was  heard  over  the  low 
murmur  of  the  crowd,  and  instantly  the  mass  of  moving 
heads  was  lifted  to  the  mount,  and  the  sea  of  faces  flashed 
white  under  the  heaviness  of  the  sky. 

“  Daniel  Mylrea,”  said  the  Bishop,  “it  is  not  for  us  to 
know  if  any  hidden  circumstance  lessens  the  hideousness 
of  your  crime.  Against  all  questions  concerning  your 
motive  your  lips  have  been  sealed,  and  we  who  are  your 
earthly  judges  are  compelled  to  take  you  at  the  worst. 
But  if,  in  the  fulness  of  your  remorse,  your  silence  con¬ 
ceals  what  would  soften  your  great  offence,  be  sure  that 
your  Heavenly  Judge,  who  reads  your  heart,  sees  all. 
You  have  taken  a  precious  life  ;  you  have  spilled  the  blood 
of  one  who  bore  himself  so  meekly  and  lovingly  and  with 
such  charity  before  the  world  that  the  hearts  of  all  men 
were  drawn  to  him.  And  you,  who  slew  him  in  heat  or 
malice,  you  he  ever  loved  with  a  great  tenderness.  Your 
guilt  is  confessed,  your  crime  is  black,  and  now  your  pun¬ 
ishment  is  sure.” 

The  crowd  held  its  breath  while  the  Bishop  spoke,  but 
the  guilty  man  moaned  feebly  and  his  bowed  head  swayed 
to  and  fro. 

“  Daniel  Mylrea,  there  is  an  everlasting  sacredness  in 
human  life,  and  God  who  gave  it  guards  it  jealously. 
When  man  violates  it,  God  calls  for  vengeance,  and  if  we 
who  are  his  law-givers  on  earth  shut  our  ears  to  that  cry 
of  the  voice  of  God,  his  fierce  anger  goes  forth  as  a 
whirlwind  and  his  word  as  a  fire  upon  all  men.  Woe  unto 
us  if  now  we  sin  against  the  Lord  by  falling  short  of  the 
punishment  that  he  has  ordered.  Righteously,  and  with¬ 
out  qualm  of  human  mercy,  even  as  God  has  commanded, 
we,  his  servants,  must  execute  judgment  on  the  evil-doer, 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3& 


i63t  His  wrath  foe  poured  out  upon  this  island  itself,  upon 
man  and  upon  beast,  and  upon  the  fruit  of  the  ground.” 

At  that  word  the  deep  murmur  broke  out  afresh  over 
the  people,  and  under  the  low  sky  their  upturned  faces 
were  turned  to  a  grim  paleness.  And  now  a  strange  light 
came  into  the  eyes  of  the  Bishop,  and  his  deep  voice  qua¬ 
vered.  . 

«  Daniel  Mylrea,”  he  continued,  “  it  is  not  the  way  of 
God’s  worse  chastisement  to  take  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth,  and  to  spill  blood  for  blood  that  has  been 
spilled.  When  the  sword  of  the  Lord  goes  forth  it  is  some¬ 
times  to  destroy  the  guilty  man,  and  sometimes  to  cut  him 
off  from  the  land  of  the  living,  to  banish  him  to  the  parched 
places  of  the  wilderness,  to  end  the  days  wherein  his  sleep 
shall  be  sweet  to  him,  to  blot  out  his  name  from  the  names 
of  men,  and  to  give  him  no  burial  at  the  last  when  the 
darkness  of  death  shall  cover  him. 

The  Bishop  paused.  There  was  a  dreadful  silence,  and 
the  distant  sea  sent  up  into  the  still  air,  under  the  low 
clouds  that  reverberated  like  a  vault,  a  hoarse,  threatening 
murmur : 

“  Daniel  Mylrea,  you  are  not  to  die  for  your  crime.” 

At  that  ill-omened  word  the  prisoner  staggered  like  a 
drunken  man,  and  lifted  his  right  hand  mechanically  above 
his  head,  as  one  who  would  avert  a  blow.  And  now  it 
was  easy  to  see  in  the  wild  light  in  the  eyes  of  the  Bishop, 
and  to  hear  in  his  hollow,  tense  voice,  that  the  heart  of 
the  father  was  wrestling  with  the  soul  of  the  priest,  and 
that  every  word  that  condemned  the  guilty  man  made  its 
sore  wound  on  the  spirit  of  him  that  uttered  it. 

“  You  have  chosen  death  rather  than  life,  but  on  this 
side  of  death’s  darkness  you  have  yet,  by  God’s  awful  will, 
to  become  a  terror  to  yourself  ;  you  have  water  of  gall  to 
drink  ;  toilfully  you  have  to  live  in  a  waste  land  alone, 
where  the  sweet  light  of  morning  shall  bring  you  pain,  and 
the  darkness  of  night  have  eyes  to  peer  into  your  soul ; 
and  so  on  and  on  from  year  to  weary  year,  until  your  step 
shall  fail  and  there  shall  be  never  another  to  help  you  up  ; 
hopeless,  accursed,  finding  death  in  life,  looking  only  for 
life  in  death,  and  crying  in  the  bitterness  of  your  desola¬ 
tion,  ‘  Cursed  be  the  day  wherein  I  was  born  ;  let  not  the 
day  wherein  my  mother  bare  me  be  blessed  !  Cursed  be 
the  man  that  brought  tidings  to  my  father,  saying,  ‘  A  man- 
child  is  born  unto  thee,’  making  his  heart  glad.’” 

One  hoarse  cry  as  of  physical  pain  burst  from  the  pris* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


282 

oner  before  these  awful  words  were  yet  fully  uttered. 
The  guilty  man  gripped  his  head  between  his  hands,  and 
2ike  a  beast  that  is  smitten  in  the  shambles  he  stood  in  a 
stupor,  his  body  swaying  slightly,  a  film  upon  his  eyes, 
and  his  mind  sullen  and  stunned.  There  was  silence  for 
a  moment,  and  when  the  Bishop  spoke  again  his  tempest- 
beaten  head,  white  with  the  flowers  of  the  grave,  trembled 
visibly.  The  terrified  people  were  grasping  each  other’s 
hands,  and  their  hard-drawn  breath  went  through  the  air 
like  the  hiss  of  the  sea  at  its  ebb.  As  they  looked  up  at 
the  Bishop  they  understood  that  an  awful  struggle  of 
human  love  and  spiritual  duty  was  going  on  before  them, 
and  over  all  their  terror  they  were  moved  to  a  deep  com¬ 
passion. 

“  Daniel  Mylrea,”  said  the  Bishop  again,  and  notwith- 
.  standing  his  efforts  to  uphold  it,  his  voice  softened  and  all 
but  broke,  “  vengeance  belongs  to  God,  but  we  who  are 
men  and  prone  to  fall  are  not  to  deny  mercy.  When  your 
fetters  are  removed,  and  you  leave  this  place,  you  will  go 
to  the  Calf  Sound  that  flows  at  the  extreme  south  of  the 
island*  There  you  will  find  your  fishing-boat,  stored  with 
such  as  may  meet  your  immediate  wants.  With  that  of¬ 
fering  we  part  from  you  while  life  shall  last.  Use  it  well, 
but  henceforward  look  for  no  succor  whence  it  has  come. 
Though  you  loathe  your  life,  be  zealous  to  preserve  it, 
and  hasten  not,  I  warn  you,  by  one  hour  the  great  day  of 
God’s  final  reckoning.  Most  of  all  be  mindful  of  the 
things  of  an  eternal  concernment,  that  we  who  part  from 
you  now  may  not  part  forever  as  from  a  soul  given  over 
to  everlasting  darkness.” 

The  prisoner  gave  no  further  sign.  Then  the  Bishop 
turned  with  a  wild  gesture  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  and 
lifted  both  his  hands.  “  Men  and  women  of  Man,”  he 
said,  in  a  voice  that  rose  to  the  shrillness  of  a  cry,  “  the 
sentence  of  the  court  of  the  barony  of  the  island  is,  that 
this  man  shall  be  cut  off  from  his  people.  Henceforth 
-et  him  have  no  name  among  us,  nor  family,  nor  kin. 
From  now  forever  let  no  flesh  touch  his  flesh.  Let  no 
tongue  speak  to  him.  Let  no  eye  look  on  him.  If  he 
should  be  an-hungered,  let  none  give  him  meat.  When 
he  shall  be  sick  let  none  minister  to  him.  When  his  death 
shall  come,  let  no  man  bury  him.  Alone  let  him  live, 
alone  let  him  die,  and  among  the  beasts  of  the  field  let 
him  hide  his  unburied  bones.” 

A  great  hoarse  groan  arose  from  the  people,  such  ad 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


**3 


comes  from  the  bosom  of  a  sullen  sea.  The  pathos  of  the 
awful  struggle  which  they  had  looked  upon  was  swal¬ 
lowed  up  in  the  horror  of  its  tragedy.  What  they  had 
come  to  sec  was  as  nothing  to  the  awfulness  of  the  thing 
they  had  witnessed.  Death  was  terrible,  but  this  was  be¬ 
yond  death’s  terror.  Somewhere  in  the  dark  chambers  of 
the  memory  of  their  old  men  the  like  of  it  lived  as  a  grim 
gorgon  from  old  time.  They  looked  up  at  the  mount, 
and  the  gaunt  figure  standing  there  above  the  vast  multi¬ 
tude  of  moving  heads  seemed  to  be  something  beyond  nat¬ 
ure.  The  trembling  upraised  hands,  the  eyes  of  fire,  the 
white  quivering  lips,  the  fever  in  the  face  which  con¬ 
sumed  thq  grosser  senses,  appeared  to  transcend  the  nat¬ 
ural  man.  And  below  was  the  prisoner,  dazed,  stunned, 
a  beast  smitten  mortally  and  staggering  to  its  fall. 

The  sergeant  removed  the  fetters  from  the  prisoner’s 
hands  and  feet,  and  turned  him  about  with  his  face  tow¬ 
ard  the  south.  Not  at  first  did  the  man  seem  to  realize 
that  he  was  no  longer  a  prisoner,  but  an  outcast,  and  free 
to  go  whither  he  would,  save  where  other  men  might  be. 
Then,  recovering  some  partial  consciousness,  he  moved  a 
pace  or  two  forward,  and  instantly  the  crowd  opened  for 
him  and  a  long,  wide  way  was  made  through  the  dense 
mass,  and  he  walked  through  it,  slow  yet  strong  of  step, 
with  head  bent  and  eyes  that  looked  into  the  eyes  of  no 
man.  Thus  he  passed  away  from  the  Tynwald  toward 
the  foot  of  Slieau  Whallin  and  the  valley  of  Foxdale  that 
runs  southward.  And  the  people  looked  after  him,  and 
the  Bishop  on  the  mount  and  the  clergy  below  followed 
him  with  their  eyes.  A  great  wave  of  compassion  swept 
over  the  crowd  as  the  solitary  figure  crossed  the  river  and 
began  to  ascend  the  mountain-path.  The  man  was  ac¬ 
cursed,  and  none  might  look  upon  him  with  pity ;  but 
there  were  eyes  that  grew  dim  at  that  sight. 

The  smoke  still  rose  in  a  long  blue  column  from  the 
side  of  Greeba,  and  the  heavy  cloud  that  had  hung  at 
poise  over  the  head  of  Slieau  Whallin  had  changed  its 
shape  to  the  outlines  of  a  mighty  bird,  luminous  as  a  sea¬ 
gull,  but  of  a  sickly  saffron.  Over  the  long  line  of  sea 
and  sky  to  the  west  the  streak  of  red  that  had  burned 
duskily  had  also  changed  to  a  dull  phosphoric  light  that 
sent  eastward  over  the  sky’s  low  roof  a  misty  glow.  And 
while  the  people  watched  the  lonely  man  who  moved  away 
from  them  across  the  breast  of  the  hill,  a  pale  sheet  of 
lightning,  without  noise  of  thunder,  flashed  twice  or  thric# 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


before  their  faces.  So  still  was  the  crowd,  atid  SO  rever¬ 
berant  the  air,  that  they  could  hear  the  man's  footsteps  on 
the  stony  hillside.  When  he  reached  the  topmost  point  of 
the  path,  and  was  about  to  descend  to  the  valley,  he  was 
seen  to  stop,  and  presently  to  turn  his  face,  gazing  back¬ 
ward  for  a  moment.  Against  the  dun  sky  his  figure  could 
be  seen  from  head  to  foot.  While  he  stood  the  people 
held  their  breath.  When  he  was  gone,  and  the  mountain 
had  hidden  him,  the  crowd  breathed  audibly. 

At  the  next  moment  all  eyes  were  turned  back  to  the 
mount.  There  the  Bishop,  a  priest  of  God  no  longer,  but 
only  a  poor  human  father  now,  had  fallen  to  his  knees, 
and  lifted  his  two  trembling  arms.  Then  the  pent-up 
anguish  of  the  wretched  heart  that  had  steeled  itself  to  a 
mighty  sacrifice  of  duty  burst  forth  in  a  prayer  of  great 
agony. 

“O  Father  in  Heaven,  it  is  not  for  him  who  draws  the 
sword  of  the  Lord’s  vengeance  among  men  to  cry  for  mer¬ 
cy,  but  rather  to  smite  and  spare  not,  yea,  though  his  own 
flesh  be  smitten  ;  but,  O  Thcu  that  fillest  heaven  and  earth, 
from  whom  none  can  hide  himself  in  any  secret  place  that 
Thou  shalt  not  see  him,  look  with  pity  on  the  secret  place 
of  the  heart  of  Thy  servant  and  hear  his  cry.  O  Lord  on 
High,  whose  anger  goes  forth  as  a  whirlwind,  and  whose 
word  is  like  as  a  fire,  what  am  I  but  a  feeble,  broken,  deso¬ 
late  old  man  ?  Thou  knowest  my  weakness,  and  how  my 
familiars  watched  for  my  halting,  and  how  for  a  period 
my  soul  failed  me,  and  how  my  earthly  affections  con¬ 
quered  my  heavenly  office,  and  how  God’s  rule  among  this 
people  was  most  in  danger  from  the  servant  of  God,  who 
should  be  valiant  for  the  Lord  on  the  earth.  And  if 
through  the  trial  of  this  day  Thou  hast  been  strength  of 
my  strength,  woe  is  me  now,  aged  and  full  of  days,  feeble 
of  body  and  weak  of  faith,  that  Thou  hast  brought  this 
heavy  judgment  upon  me.  God  of  Goodness  and  Right¬ 
eous  Judge  of  all  the  Earth,  have  mercy  and  forgive  if  we 
weep  for  him  who  goeth  away  and  shall  return  no  more, 
nor  see  his  home  and  kindred.  Follow  him  with  Thy  Spir¬ 
it,  touch  him  with  Thy  finger  of  fire,  pour  upon  him  the 
healing  of  Thy  grace,  so  that  after  death's  great  asunder- 
ing,  when  all  shall  stand  for  one  judgment,  it  may  not  be 
said  of  Thy  servant,  ‘Write  ye  this  old  man  childless.' " 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  great  shattered  soul,  and  the  terrified 
people  dropped  to  their  knees  while  the  voice  pealed  over 
their  heads.  When  the  Bishop  was  silent  the  clergy  lifted 


THE  DEEMSTER 


fcim  to  his  feet  and  helped  him  down  the  pathway  to  the 
chapel.  There  was  then  a  dull  murmur  of  distant  thunder 
from  across  the  sea.  The  people  fell  apart  in  confusion. 
Before  the  last  of  them  had  left  the  green  the  cloud  of 
pale  saffron  over  the  head  of  Slieau  Whallin  had  broken 
into  lightning,  and  the  rain  was  falling  heavily, 


THE  BRIEF  RELATION  OF  DANIEL  MYLREA. 

WRITTEN  BY  HIMSELF. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

OF  HIS  OUTCAST  STATE. 

I,  Daniel  Mylr.ea,  the  son  (God  forgive  me  !)  of  Gilcrist 
Mylrea,  Bishop  of  Man — grace  and  peace  be  with  that 
saintly  soul ! — do  set  me  down  in  the  year  (as  well  as  my 
reckoning  serves  me)  1712,  the  month  September,  the  day 
somewhere  between  the  twentieth  and  the  thirtieth,  to  be¬ 
gin  a  brief  relation  of  certain  exceeding  strange  accidents 
of  this  life  that  have  befallen  me  since,  at  the  heavy  judg¬ 
ment  of  God,  I  first  turned  my  face  from  the  company  of 
men.  Not,  as  the  good  Bunyan  was,  am  I  now  impelled 
to  such  a  narration — bear  with  me  though  I  name  myself 
with  that  holy  man — by  hope  or  thought  that  the  good¬ 
ness  and  bounty  of  God  may  thereby  be  the  more  ad¬ 
vanced  before  the  sons  of  men,  though  it  is  for  me  also  to 
magnify  the  Heavenly  Majesty,  insomuch  as  that  by  this 
door  of  my  outcast  state  He  has  brought  me  to  partake  of 
grace  and  life.  Alone  I  sit  to  write  what  perchance  no 
eye  may  read,  but  it  is  with  hope,  perhaps  only  vain,  that 
she  who  is  dear  to  me  beyond  words  of  appraisement  may 
yet  learn  of  the  marvels  which  did  oft  occur,  that  I  try  in 
these  my  last  days  to  put  my  memory  under  wardship. 
For  it  has  fastened  on  me  with  conviction  that  God  has 
chosen  me  for  a  vesseLof  mercy,  and  that  very  soon  he 
will  relieve  me  from  the  body  of  the  death  I  live  in.  If  I 
finish  this  writing  before  I  go  hence,  and  if  when  I  am  gone 
she  reads  it,  methinks  it  will  come  to  her  as  a  deep  solace 
that  her  prayer  of  long  since  was  answered,  and  that, 

though  so  sorely  separated)  we  twain  {rave  yet  been  one 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


2&6 

even  in  this  world,  and  lived  together  by  day  and  hour  in 
the  cheer  of  the  spirit.  But  if  the  gracious  end  should 
come  before  I  bring  my  task  to  a  period,  and  she  should 
know  only  of  my  forlorn  condition  and  learn  nothing  of 
the  grace  wherein  much  of  its  desolation  was  lost,  and  * 
never  come  to  an  understanding  of  such  of  those  strange 
accidents  as  to  her  knowledge  have  befallen,  then  that 
were  also  well,  for  she  must  therein  be  spared  many  tears. 

It  was  on  May  29,  1705 — seven  years  and  four  months, 
as  I  reckon  it,  back  from  this  present  time — that  in  pun¬ 
ishment  of  my  great  crime  the  heavy  sentence  fell  on  me 
that  cut  me  off  forever  from  the  number  of  the  people. 
What  happened  on  that  day  and  on  the  days  soon  follow¬ 
ing  it  I  do  partly  remember  with  the  vividness  of  horror, 
and  partly  recall  with  difficulty  and  mistrust  from  certain 
dark  places  of  memory  that  seem  to  be  clouded  over  and 
numb.  When  I  came  to  myself  as  I  was  plodding  over  the 
side  of  Slieau  Whallin,  the  thunder  was  loud  in  my  ears,  the 
lightning  was  flashing  before  my  eyes,  and  the  rain  was 
swirling  around  me.  I  minded  them  not,  but  went  on, 
hardly  seeing  what  was  about  or  above  me,  on  and  on,  over 
mountain  road  and  path,  until  the  long  day  was  almost  j 
done  and  the  dusk  began  to  deepen.  Then  the  strength 
of  the  tempest  was  spent,  and  only  the  hinder  part  of  it 
beat  out  from  the  west  a  thin,  misty  rain,  and  I  found  my¬ 
self  in  Rushen,  on  the  south  brow  of  the  glen  below  Car-  f 
ny-Gree.  There  I  threw  myself  down  on  the  turf  with  a 
great  numbness  and  a  great  stapor  upon  me,  both  in  body 
and  in  mind.  How  long  I  lay  there  I  know  not,  whether 
a  few  minutes  only,  or,  as  I  then  surmised,  near  four-and- 
twenty  hours  ;  but  the  light  of  day  was  not  wholly  gone 
from  the  sky  when  I  lifted  my  bead  from  where  it  had 
rested  on  my  hands,  and  saw  that  about  me  in  a  deep  half- 1 
circle  stood  a  drift  of  sheep,  all  still,  save  for  their  heavy  * 
breathing,  and  all  gazing  in  their  questioning  silence  down } 
on  me.  I  think  in  my  heart,  remembering  my  desolation, 

I  drew  solace  from  this  strange  fellowship  on  the  lone 
mountain-side,  but  I  lifted  my  hand  and  drove  the  sheep 
away,  and  I  thought  as  they  went  they  bleated,  but  I  could 
hear  nothing  of  their  cry,  and  so  surmised  that  under  the 
sufferings  o\  that  day  1  had  become  deaf. 

I  fell  back  to  the  same  stupor  as  before,  and  when  I 
came  to  myself  again  the  moon  was  up,  and  a  white  light  was 
around  the  place  where  I  sat.  With  the  smell  of  the| 
sheep  in  my  nostrils  I  thought  they  might  be  standing 


T&E  DEEMSTER . 


about  me  again,  but  I  could  sec  nothing  clearly,  and  so 
stretched  out  my  hands  either  way.  Then,  from  their  con¬ 
fusion  in  scurrying  away,  I  knew  that  the  sheep  had  indeed 
been  there,  and  that  under  the  sufferings  of  that  day  I  had 
also  failed  in  my  sight. 

The  tempest  was  over  by  this  time,  the  mountain  turf 
had  run  dry,  and  I  lay  me  down  at  length  and  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep  without  dreams  ;  and  so  ended  the  first  day  of 
my  solitary  state. 

When  I  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  wheat-ear  was 
singing  on  a  stone  very  close  above  me,  whereunder  her  pale- 
blue  egg  she  had  newly  laid.  I  know  not  what  wayward 
humor  then  possessed  me,  but  it  is  true  that  I  reached  my 
hand  to  the  little  egg  and  looked  at  it,  and  crushed  it  be¬ 
tween  my  finger  and  thumb,  and  castlts  refuse  away.  My 
surmise  of  the  night  before  I  now  found  to  be  verified,  that 
hearing  and  sight  were  both  partly  gone  from  me.  No 
man  ever  mourned  less  at  first  knowledge  of  such  infirmi¬ 
ties,  but  in  truth  I  was  almost  beyond  the  touch  of  pain, 
and  a  sorer  calamity  would  have  wanted  strength  to  tor¬ 
ture  me.  I  rose  and  set  my  face  southward,  for  it  wTas  in 
the  Calf  Sound,  as  I  remembered,  that  I  was  to  find  my 
boat,  and  if  any  hope  lived  in  my  heart,  so  numb  of  tor¬ 
por,  it  was  that  perchance  I  might  set  sail  and  get  myself 
away. 

I  walked  between  Barrule  and  Dalby,  and  came  down 
on  the  eastward  of  Cronk-na-Irey-Lliaa.  Then  I,  who  had 
never  before  known  my  strength  to  fail,  grew  suddenly 
weary,  and  would  fain  have  cast  me  down  to  rest.  So  to 
succumb  I  could  not  brook,  but  I  halted  in  my  walking 
and  looked  back,  and  across  the  plain  to  the  east,  and  down 
to  the  Bay  of  Fleswick  to  the  west.  Many  times  since  have 
I  stood  there  and  looked  on  sea  and  sky,  and  mountain  and 
dale,  and  asked  myself  was  ever  so  fair  a  spot,  and  if  the 
plains  of  heaven  were  fairer  ?  But  that  day  my  dim  eyes 
scoured  the  sea  for  a  sail  and  the  mountains  for  a  man, 
and  nothing  did  they  see  of  either,  and  all  else  was  then  as 
nothing. 

Yet,  though  I  was  so  eager  to  keep  within  sight  of  my 
fellow-man,  I  was  anxious  not  to  come  his  way,  and  in 
choosing  my  path  I  walked  where  he  was  least  likely  to 
be.  Thus,  holding  well  to  the  west  of  Fleswick,  I  took  the 
cliff-head  toward  Brada,  and  then  came  down  between 
Port  Erin  and  Port-le-Mary  to  the  moors  that  stretch  to 
the  margin  of  the  sound,  Some  few  I  met,  chiefly  shep- 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


herds  and  fishermen,  but  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  none,  and 
none  gave  me  salutation.  This  was  well,  for  my  heart  was 
bitter,  and  if  any  had  spoken,  not  knowing  me,  I  doubt 
not  I  should  have  answered  ill.  In  my  great  heart-torpor, 
half-blind,  half-deaf,  I  was  that  day  like  a  wounded  beast 
of  the  field,  ranging  the  moorland  with  a  wild  abandon¬ 
ment  and  dangerous  to  its  kind. 

When  I  came  to  Cregneesh  and  saw  it  for  the  first  time, 
a  little  disjointed  gyps y  encampment  of  mud-built  tents 
pitched  on  the  bare  moor,  the  sky  was  reddening  across 
the  sea,  and  from  that  I  knew  how  far  advanced  the  day 
must  be,  how  slow  my  course  had  been,  and  how  low  my 
strength.  In  half  an  hour  more  I  had  sighted  my  boat,  the 
Ben-my-Chree,  where  she  lay  in  the  Doon  Creek  of  the 
sound,  at  the  length  of  some  fifty  fathoms  inside  the  rocks 
of  Kitterland.  When  I  came  up  to  her  I  found  her  an¬ 
chored  in  some  five  fathoms  of  water,  with  the  small-boat 
lying  dry  on  the  shingly  beach.  Her  cabin  contained  pro¬ 
visions  enough  for  present  needs,  and  mose  than  that  I  was 
in  no  mood  to  think  about.  Since  the  morning  of  the  day 
before  I  had  not  broken  fast,  but  now  I  ate  hungrily  of 
oaten  and  barley  cake.  Later  in  the  evening,  when  | 
the  stars  were  out  and  the  moon,  which  was  in  its  last ; 
quarter,  was  hanging  over  the  Calf,  I  mixed  myself  some;; 
porridge  of  rye-meal  and  cold  water,  and  ate  it  on  the  j 
deck,  and  then^vent  below  to  my  bunk  and  lay  me  down  i 
alone.  Between  sleeping  and  waking  I  tried  to  think  of  my 
position  and  to  realize  it,  but  an  owl  was  hooting  some-  i 
where  on  the  land,  and  somewhere  over  the  waters  of  the  ; 
sound  a  diver  was  making  his  unearthly  laugh.  I  could  i 
not  think  save  of  the  hooting  owl  and  the  screaming  diver,  i 
and  when  I  thought  of  them,  though  their  note  was  dole¬ 
ful  and  seemed  to  tell  of  suffering,  or  perhaps  of  demoniac;  \ 
delight,  I  could  not  thank  God  that  I  had  been  made  a  ! 
man.  Thus,  feeling  how  sore  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  creatures  j 
living  under  the  wrath  of  God,  I  tossed  on  my  bunk  until  j 
I  fell  to  sleep  ;  and  so  ended  the  second  day  of  my  un¬ 
blessed  condition. 

To  follow  closely  all  that  befell  on  the  next  day,  or  the 
many  days  thereafter  whereof  I  kept  no  reckoning,  were 
to  weary  my  spirit.  One  thing  I  know,  that  a  suddens  ii 
dumbness  of  the  spiritual  life  within  me  left  me  a  worsel 
man  than  I  had  been  before  the  day  of  my  cutting  off,  and 
that  I  did  soon  lose  the  little  I  had  of  human  love  and  ten¬ 
derness.  My  gun  had  been  put  in  the  boat#  and  with  that  « 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*89 

I  ranged  the  cliffs  and  the  moor  from  the  Mull  Hill*  that 
lie  to  the  west  of  Cregneesh  to  the  Chasms  that  are  to  the 
east  of  it.  Many  puffins  I  shot,  that  much  frequent  these 
shores,  but  their  flesh  was  rank  and  salt,  and  they  were 
scarcely  worth  the  powder  I  spent  on  them.  Thus,  it 
sometimes  happened  that,  being  in  no  straits  for  food,  I 
cast  the  birds  away,  or  did  not  put  myself  to  the  pains  of 
lifting  them  up  after  they  fell  to  my  gun,  but  went  on, 
nevertheless,  to  destroy  them  in  my  wanton  humor.  Rab¬ 
bits  I  srnared  by  a  trick  I  learned  when  a  boy,  and  some¬ 
times  cooked  them  in  the  stove  and  ate  them  like  a  Chris¬ 
tian  man,  and  at  other  times  I  sat  me  down  on  the  hillside 
and  rived  them  asunder  as  a  wild  creature  of  the  hills 
might  do.  But  whether  I  ate  in  my  boat  or  on  the  cliff  I 
took  no  religion  to  my  table,  and  thought  only  that  I  liked 
my  food  or  misliked  it. 

Many  times  in  these  first  days  I  had  to  tear  myself  away 
from  thinking  of  my  condition,  for  to  do  so  was  like  the 
stab  of  a  knife  to  my  brain,  and  I  plainly  saw  that  in  that 
way  madness  itself  would  lie.  If  I  told  myself  that  other 
men  had  been  cast  alone  ere  now  in  desolate  places  where 
no  foot  of  man  was  and  no  sound  of  a  human  voice,  a  great 
stroke  would  come  upon  my  spirit  with  the  thought  that 
only  their  bodies  had  been  cast  away,  but  that  my  soul 
was  so.  The  marooned  seaman  on  an  uninhabited  island, 
when  at  length  he  set  eyes  on  his  fellow-man,  might  Jft  up 
his  heart  to  God,  but  to  me  the  company  of  men  was  not 
blessed.  Free  I  was  to  go  where  men  were,  even  to  the 
towns  wherein  they  herded  together,  but  go  where  I  would 
I  must  yet  be  alone. 

With  this  thought,  and  doubting  not  that  for  me  the 
day  of  grace  was  past  and  gone,  since  God  had  turned  his 
face  from  the  atonement  I  had  erewhile  been  minded  to 
make,  I  grew  day  by  day  more  bitter  in  my  heart,  and 
found  it  easiest  to  shut  my  mind  by  living  actively  from 
hour  to  hour.  Then,  like  a  half-s'carved  hound,  I  went 
abroad  at  daybreak  and  scoured  the  hills  the  day  long, 
and  returned  to  my  bed  at  night.  I  knew  I  was  a  baser 
thing  than  I  had  been,  and  it  brought  some  comfort  then 
to  know  that  I  was  alone  and  no  eye  saw  me  as  I  now  was. 
Mine  was  a  rank  hold  of  life,  and  it  gave  me  a  savage  de¬ 
light  unknown  before  to  live  by  preying  on  other  creat¬ 
ures.  I  shot  and  slew  daily  and  hourly,  and  if  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  I  told  myself  that  what  I  had  killed  held  its  life  on 
the  same  tenure  that  I  did,  my  humanity  was  not  touched 


390 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


except  to  feel  a  strange  wild  thrill  that  it  was  not  I  that  lay 
dead.  Looking  back  over  these  seven  years,  it  comes  to 
me  as  an  unnatural  thing  that  this  mood  can  ever  have 
been  mine  ;  but  mine  it  was,  and  from  the  like  of  it  may 
God  in  his  mercy  keep  all  Christian  men. 

One  day — I  think  it  must  have  been  somewhere  toward 
the  end  of  the  first  month  of  my  outcast  state — I  was  rang¬ 
ing  the  cliff-side  above  the  gray  rocks  of  the  Black  Head, 
when  I  chanced  on  a  hare  and  shot  it.  On  coming  up 
with  it  I  found  it  was  lean  and  bony,  and  so  turned  aside 
and  left  it  as  it  squeaked  and  bounced  from  my  feet.  This 
was  in  the  morning,  and  toward  nightfall  I  returned  by 
the  same  way  and  saw  the  hare  lying  by  a  brookside, 
ragged  and  bleeding,  but  still  alive.  At  sight  of  me  the 
wee  thing  tried  to  move  away,  but  its  weakness  and  a  clot 
of  its  blood  kept  it  down,  and,  feeling  its  extremity,  it 
lifted  its  two  slender  paws  in  the  air,  while  its  glistening 
eyes  streamed  visibly,  and  set  up  a  piteous  cry  like  the  cry 
of  a  little  child.  I  cannot  write  what  then  I  did,  for  it 
wounds  me  sore  to  think  of  it,  but  when  it  was  done,  and 
that  piteous  cry  was  no  more  in  mine  ears,  suddenly  I  said 
with  myself  this  awful  word,  “  I  am  no  longer  a  man,  but 
a  beast  of  the  field  ;  and  the  God  of  mercy  and  of  tender¬ 
ness  has  cast  me  forever  out  of  the  hollow  of  his  hand.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

OP  HIS  WAY  OF  LIFE. 

This  meeting  with  the  poor  hare,  though  now  it  looks 
So  trivial  a  thing,  did  then  make  a  great  seizure  upon  my 
mind,  so  that  it  changed  my  course  and  habit  of  life.  For 
ceasing  not  to  believe  that  I  was  wholly  given  over  to  a 
reprobate  soul,  I  yet  laid  my  gun  aside,  and  locked  my 
shot  and  powder  in  a  drawer  beneath  my  bunk,  and  set  my 
face  toward  new  ways  of  living.  First  I  put  myself  to 
counting  all  that  I  possessed.  Thus  I  found  that  of  rye 
and  Indian  meal  I  had  a  peck  each,  of  barley  a  peck,  with 
two  quarters  of  fine  barley  flour,  of  oats  a  peck,  with  two 
quarters  of  oaten  meal,  of  potatoes  two  kischen,  besides 
onions  and  a  little  common  salt.  In  the  hold  under  the 
hatches  there  were  stored  sundry  useful  implements — ft 
spade,  a  fork,  a  hedge-knife,  some  hempen  rope  and 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

twine,  and  with  the  rest  were  the  four  herring*nets  which 

belonged  to  the  boat,  a  mackerel-net,  and  some  deep-sea 
lines.  Other  things  there  were  that  I  do  not  name — 
wanting  memory  of  them  at  this  time  of  writing — but 
enough  in  all  for  most  uses  that  a  lone  man  might  have. 

And  this  had  ofttimes  set  me  wondering  why,  if  it  had 
been  meant  that  I  should  be  cast  utterly  away,  I  had  been 
provided  with  means  of  life,  who  could  well  have  found 
them  for  myself.  But  after  that  meeting  with  the  hare  I 
perceived  the  end  of  God  in  this,  namely,  that  I  should 
not,  without  guilt,  descend  from  the  state  of  a  Christian 
man  when  hunger  had  to  be  satisfied. 

And  herein  also  I  found  the  way  of  the  stern  Judge  with 
guilty  man,  that,  having  enough  for  present  necessities,  I 
had  little  for  the  future,  beyond  the  year  that  then  was, 
and  that  if  I  must  eat,  so  I  must  work.  Thus,  upon  a  day 
somewhere,  as  I  reckon,  about  a  month  after  my  cutting 
off,  I  rose  early,  and  set  myself  to  delve  a  piece  of  fallow 
ground— where  all  was  fallow — two  roods  or  more  in  ex¬ 
tent,  lying  a  little  to  the  north  of  the  Black  Head,  and  to 
the  south  of  the  circle  of  stones  that  stand  near  by.  All 
day  I  wrought  fasting,  and  when  darkness  fell  in  the  fal¬ 
lows  were  turned.  Next  morning  I  put  down  my  seed— 1 
of  potatoes  a  half-kischen,  cut  in  quarters  where  the  eyes 
were  many,  and  also  of  barley  and  oats  half  a  peck  each, 
keeping  back  my  other  half-peck  lest  the  ground  were 
barren,  or  the  weather  against  it,  or  the  year  too  far  worn 
for  such-like  crops. 

And  that  day  of  the  delving,  the  first  on  which  I 
wrought  as  a  man,  was  also  the  first  on  which  I  felt  a 
man’s  craving  for  the  company  of  other  men.  The  sun 
was  strong  all  the  fore  part  of  the  day,  and  its  hot  rays 
scorched  the  skin  of  my  back — for  I  had  stripped  to  my 
waist  for  my  labor — and  that  set  me  thinking  what  month 
it  was,  and  wondering  what  was  doing  in  the  world,  and 
how  long  I  had  been  where  I  then  was.  When  I  returned 
to  my  boat  at  nightfall,  the  air,  as  I  remember  it,  was 
quiet  over  the  sound  as  it  might  be  in  a  cloister,  and  only 
the  gulls  were  jabbering  on  Kitterland  and  the  cormorants 
at  the  water’s  edge.  And  I  sat  on  the  deck  while  the  sun 
went  down  in  the  sea,  and  the  red  sky  darkened  and  the 
stars  began  to  show  and  the  moon  to  look  out.  Then  I 
went  below  and  ate  my  barley  bread  and  thought  of  what 
it  was  to  be  alone. 

It  was  that  night  that  I  bethought  me  of  my  watch,  which 


rm r  deemster. 


JQX 

I  had  not  once  looked  for  since  the  day  of  my  immersion 
in  the  Cross  Vein  on  Orrisdale,  when  I  found  it  stopped 
from  being  full  of  water.  In  my  fob  it  had  lain  with  its 
seals  and  chain  since  then,  but  now  I  took  it  out  and 
cleaned  it  with  oil  from  the  fat  of  the  hare  and  wound  it 
up.  For  months  thereafter  I  set  a  great  store  by  it,  al¬ 
ways  carrying  it  in  my  fob  when  I  went  abroad,  and  when 
I  came  home  to  the  boat  always  hanging  it  on  a  nail  to  the 
larboard  of  the  stove-pipe  in  the  cabin.  And  in  the  long 
silence  of  the  night,  when  I  heard  it,  sure,  I  thought,  it  is 
the  same  to  me  as  good  company.  Very  careful  I  was  to 
wind  it  when  the  sun  set,  but  if  perchance  it  ran  down, 
and  I  awoke  in  my  bunk,  and,  listening,  heard  it  not,  then 
it  was  as  if  the  pulse  had  stopped  otjthe  little  world  I 
lived  in,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  great  emptiness. 

But  withal  my  loneliness  increased  rather  than  dimin¬ 
ished,  and  though  I  had  no  longer  any  hankering  after  my 
old  way  of  life  in  ranging  the  moorlands  with  my  gun,  yet 
I  felt  that  the  activity  of  that  existence  had  led  me  off 
from  thinking  too  much  of  my  forlorn  condition.  Where¬ 
fore,  when  my  potatoes  had  begun  to  show  above  the 
ground,  and  I  had  earthed  them  up,  I  began  to  bethink 
me  touching  my  boat,  that  it  must  be  now  the  time  of  the 
herring-fishing  come  again,  and  that  I  would  go  out  of 
nights  and  see  what  I  could  take.  So,  never  doubting  that 
single-handed  I  could  navigate  the  lugger,  I  hoisted  the 
nets  out  of  the  hold  athwart  the  bunk-board,  and  took 
them  ashore  to  mend  and  to  bask  them  on  the  beach.  I 
had  spread  them  out  on  the  shingle,  and  was  using  my 
knife  and  twine  on  the  holes  of  the  dog-fish,  when  sudden¬ 
ly  from  behind  me  there  came  the  loud  bark  of  a  dog. 
♦Well  I  remember  how  I  trembled  at  the  sound  of  it,  for 
it  was  the  nearest  to  a  man's  voice  that  I  had  heard  these 
many  lonesome  days,  and  how  fearfully  I  turned  my  head 
over  my  shoulder  as  if  some  man  had  touched  me  and 
spoken.  But  what  I  saw  was  a  poor  mongrel  dog,  small  as 
a  cur,  and  with  ragged  ears,  a  peaky  nose,  and  a  scant  tail, 
which  for  all  its  loud  challenge  it  dangled  wofully  be¬ 
tween  its  legs.  Until  then  I  had  never  smiled  or  wept 
since  my  cutting  off,  and  I  believed  myself  to  have  lost  the 
sense  of  laughter  and  of  tears,  but  I  must  have  laughed  at 
the  sight  of  the  dog,  so  much  did  it  call  to  mind  certain 
brave  vaunters  I  had  known,  who  would  come  up  to  a  bout 
of  wrestling  with  a  right  lusty  brag,  and  straightway  set  to 
ttcaibliag  before  one  had  well  put  eye?  oa  theta*  At  the 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


*93 

sound  of  my  Voice  the  dog  wagged  his  tail,  and  crept  up 
timidly  with  his  muzzle  down,  and  licked  the  hand  I  held 
out  to  him.  All  day  he  sat  by  me  and  watched  me  at  my 
work,  looking  up  in  my  face  at  whiles  witli  a  wistful  gaze, 
and  I  gave  him  a  morsel  of  oaten  cake,  which  he  ate  greed¬ 
ily,  seeming  to  be  half-starved  of  hunger.  And  when  at 
dusk  my  task  was  finished  and  I  rose  and  got  into  the  din¬ 
gy,  thinking  now  he  would  go  his  ways  and  be  seen  of  me 
no  more,  he  leaped  into  the  boat  after  me,  and  when  we 
reached  the  lugger  he  settled  himself  in  the  corner  under 
the  locker  as  if  he  had  now  fully  considered  it  that  with 
me  he  would  make  his  habitation  henceforth. 

Having  all  things  in  readiness  for  the  fishing,  I  slipped 
anchor  upon  an  evening  toward  autumn,  as  I  reckoned, 
for  the  leaves  of  the  trammon  were  then  closing  like  a 
withered  hand  and  the  berries  of  the  hollin  were  redden¬ 
ing.  When  the  stars  were  out,  but  no  moon  was  yet 
showing,  I  put  about  head  to  the  wind,  and  found  myself 
in  nowise  hampered  because  short-handed,  for  when  I 
had  to  take  in  my  sails  I  lashed  my  tiller,  and  being  a  man 
of  more  than  common  strength  of  arm,  it  cost  me  nothing 
to  step  my  mainmast. 

That  night,  and  many  nights  thereafter,  I  had  good 
takings  of  fish,  and  in  the  labor  of  looking  after  my  corks 
and  making  fast  my  seizings  the  void  in  my  mind  was  in 
somewise  filled  with  other  matter  than  thoughts  of  my 
abject  state.  But  one  thing  troubled  me  at  first,  namely, 
that  I  took  more  fish  by  many  meshes  than  I  could  ever 
consume.  To  make  an  end  of  my  fishing  was  a  thing  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to,  for  I  counted  it  certain  that  so 
to  do  would  be  to  sink  back  to  my  former  way  of  living. 
Wherefore  I  thought  it  safest  to  seek  for  spme  mode  of 
disposing  of  my  fish,  such  as  would  keep  me  at  my  pres¬ 
ent  employment  and  do  no  harm  to  my  feelings  as  a  man, 
for  with  this  I  had  now  to  reckon  watchfully,  being  in 
constant  danger,  as  I  thought,  of  losing  the  sense  of  man¬ 
hood. 

So  I  soused  some  hundreds  of  my  herrings  with  rough 
salt,  which  I  distilled  from  the  salt  water  by  boiling  it  in 
a  pan  with  pebbles'.  The  remainder  I  concluded  to  give 
to  such  as  would  consume  them,  and  how  to  do  this,  being 
what  I  was,  cost  me  many  bitter  thoughts,  wherein  I 
seemed  to  be  the  most  unblessed  of  all  men.  At  length 
I  hit  on  a  device,  and  straightway  brought  it  to  bear 
Leaving  my  fishing-ground  while  the  night  waa  nut  yet 


*94 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


far  spent,  I  ran  into  the  sound  before  dawn,  for  soon  I 
learned  those  narrow  waters  until  they  grew  familiar  as 
the  palm  of  my  hand.  Then,  before  the  sun  rose  above 
the  Stack  of  Scarlet,  and  while  the  eastern  sky  was  only 
dabbled  with  pink,  I,  with  a  basket  of  herrings  on  my 
shoulder,  crossed  the  moor  to  Cregneesh,  where  the  peo¬ 
ple  are  poor  and  not  proud,  and  creeping  in  between  the 
cabins,  laid  my  fish  down  in  the  open  place  that  is  before 
the  little  chapel,  and  then  went  my  way  quickly  lest  a 
door  should  suddenly  open  or  a  window  be  lifted,  and  a 
face  look  forth.  Thrice  I  did  this  before  I  marked  that 
there  were  those  who  were  curious  to  know  whence  the 
fish  came,  and  then  I  was  put  on  my  mettle  to  go  into  the 
village  and  yet  to  keep  myself  from  being  seen,  for  well  I 
knew  that  if  any  eye  beheld  me  that  knew  me  who  I  was, 
there  would  thenceforward  be  an  end  of  the  eating  of  my 
herrings,  even  among  the  poorest,  and  an  end  of  my  fish¬ 
ing  also.  But  many  times  I  went  into  Cregneesh  without 
being  seen  of  any  man,  and  now  I  know  not  whether  to 
laugh  or  to  weep  when  I  look  back  on  the  days  I  write  of, 
and  see  myself  like  a  human  fox  stealing  in  by  the  gray 
of  dawn  among  the  sleeping  homes  of  mem 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

OF  THE  GHOSTLY  HAND  UPON  HIM. 

All  that  autumn  I  followed  the  herrings,  choosing  my 
ground  mainly  by  guess,  but  sometimes  seeing  the  blue 
lights  of  the  herring  fleet  rise  close  under  my  quarter,  and 
at  other  times,  when  the  air  was  still,  hearing  voices  of 
men  or  the  sound  of  laughter  rumored  over  the  quiet 
waters.  But  ever  fanciful  to  me,  as  a  dream  of  a  friend 
dead  when  it  is  past,  was  that  sound  on  the  sea,  and  as 
often  as  I  heard  it  I  took  in  my  nets  and  hauled  my  sails, 
and  stood  out  for  the  sound.  Putting  no  light  on  my 
mitch-board,  I  would  ofttimespass  the  fleet  within  acable’s- 
length  and  yet  not  be  known,  but  once  and  again  I  knew 
by  the  hush  of  voices  and  the  dying  away  of  laughter  on 
the  boats  about  me  that  my  dark  craft  was  seen  scudding 
like  a  black  bird  of  evil  omen  through  the  night. 

In  my  cabin  f  was  used  to  burn  a  tallow  dip  made  of  the 
fat  of  the  birds  I  had  shot  and  rushes  from  the  soft  places 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Ug$ 

of  the  moor,  and  while  my  boat  drifted  under  the  mizzen 
between  take  and  take  of  herrings  I  would  go  below  and 
sit  with  my  dog.  He  grew  sleek  with  the  fare  I  found  him, 
and  I  in  these  days  recovered  in  a  measure  my  sense  of  sight 
and  hearing,  for  the  sea’s  breath  of  brine  is  good  to  man. 
Millish  veg-veen  I  called  him,  and,  though  a  man  of  small 
cheer,  I  smiled  to  think  what  a  sorry  misname  that  name 
would  seem  in  our  harder  English  tongue.  For  my  poor 
mongrel  cur  had  his  little  sorry  vices,  such  as  did  oft  set 
me  wondering  what  the  chances  of  his  life  had  been,  and 
whether,  like  his  new  messmate,  he  had  not  somewhere 
been  driven  out.  Nevertheless,  he  had  his  good  parts, 
too,  and  was  a  creature  of  infinite  spirits.  *1  think  we 
were  company  each  to  the  other,  and  if  he  had  found  me 
a  cheerier  mate-fellow,  I  doubt  not  we  should  have  had 
some  cheerful  hours  together. 

But  in  truth,  though  my  fishing  did  much  to  tear  me 
away  from  the  burden  of  myself,  it  yet  left  me  many  lone¬ 
some  hours  wherein  my  anguish  was  sore  and  deep,  and, 
looking  to  the  years  that  might  be  before  me,  put  me  to 
the  bitter  question  whether,  being  a  man  outside  God’s 
grace,  I  could  hold  out  on  so  toilsome  a  course.  Also, 
when  I  fell  to  sleep  in  the  daytime,  after  my  work  of  the 
night  was  done,  I  was  much  wrought  upon  by  troublous 
dreams,  which  sometimes  brought  back  the  very  breath- 
odor  of  my  boyish  days  with  the  dear  souls  that  filled  them 
with  joy,  and  sometimes  plagued  me  with  awful  questions 
which  in  vain  I  tried  to  answer,  knowing  that  my  soul’s 
welfare  lay  therein.  And  being  much  followed  by  the 
thought  that  the  spirit  of  the  beast  of  the  field  lay  in  wait 
to  fall  on  the  spirit  of  the  man  within  me,  I  was  also  put 
to  great  terror  in  my  watchfulness  and  the  visions  that 
came  to  me  in  hours  of  idleness  and  sleep.  But  suddenly 
this  sentence  fell  on  my  mind  :  Thou  art  free  to  go 
whithersoever  thou  wilt,  though  it  be  the  uttermost 
reaches  of  the  earth.  Go,  then,  where  men  are,  and  so 
hold  thy  soul  as  a  man. 

Long  did  this  sentence  trouble  me,  not  being  able  to 
make  a  judgment  upon  it,  but  at  length  it  fastened  on  me 
that  I  must  follow  it,  and  that  all  the  dread  I  had  felt 
hitherto  of  the  face  of  man  was  no  more  than  a  think-so. 
Thereupon  I  concluded  that  I  would  go  into  Castletown  at 
high  fair  on  the  next  market-day,  which  I  should  know 
from  other  days  by  the  carts  I  could  descry  from  the  top 
of  the  Mull  going  the  way  of  Rushen  Church  and  Kent* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


raugh.  This  resolve  I  never  brought  to  bear,  for  the  same 
day  whereon  I  made  it  a  great  stroke  fell  upon  my  spirit 
and  robbed  me  of  the  little  wherewith  I  had  tried  to  com¬ 
fort  me.  ^  . 

Going  out  of  the  sound  that  night  by  the  Spanish  Head, 
for  the  season  was  far  worn,  and  the  herrings  lay  to  the 
eastward  of  the  island,  I  marked  in  the  dusk  that  a  smack 
that  bore  the  Peel  brand  on  its  canvas  was  rounding  the 
Chicken  Rocks  of  the  Calf.  So  I  stood  out  well  to  seaf 
and  did  not  turn  my  head  to  the  wind,  and  cast  my  nets, 
until  I  was  full  two  leagues  from  shore.  Then  it  was 
black  dark,  for  the  night  was  heavy,  and  a  mist  lay  be¬ 
tween  sea  and  sky.  But  soon  thereafter  I  saw  a  blue 
light  to  my  starboard  bow,  and  guessed  that  the  smack  from 
Peel  had  borne  down  in  my  wake.  How  long  I  lay  on 
that  ground  I  know  not,  for  the  takings  were  good,  and  I 
noted  not  the  passage  of  time.  But  at  short  whiles  I 
looked  toward  the  blue  light,  and  marked  that  as  my  boat 
drifted  so  did  the  smack  drift,  and  that  we  were  yet  within 
hail.  The  moon  came  out  with  white  streamers  from  be¬ 
hind  a  rack  of  cloud,  and  knowing  then  that  the  fishing 
was  over  for  that  night — for  the  herring  does  not  run  his 
gills  into  mischief  when  he  has  light  to  see  by — I  straight¬ 
way  fell  to  hauling  my  nets.  And  then  it  was  that  I 
found  the  smell  of  smoke  in  the  nostrils,  and  heard  loud 
voices  from  the  Peeltown  smack.  Lifting  my  eyes,  I  could 
at  first  see  nothing,  for  though  the  moon’s  light  was  in  the 
sky,  the  mist  was  still  on  the  sea,  and  through  it  there 
seemed  to  roll  slowly,  for  the  wind  was  low,  a  tunnel  of 
smoke-like  fog.  Well  I  knew  that  something  was  amiss, 
and  soon  the  mist  lifted  like  a  dark  veil  into  the  air,  and 
the  smoke  veered,  and  a  flash  of  red  flame  rose  from  the 
smack  of  the  Peelmen.  Then  I  saw  that  the  boat  was  afire, 
and  in  two  minutes  more  the  silence  of  the  sea  was  lost  in 
the  fire’s  loud  hiss  and  the  men’s  yet  louder  shouts.  It 
was  as  if  a  serpent  in  the  bowels  of  the  boat  struggled  to 
make  its  way  out,  and  long  tongues  of  fire  shot  out  of  the 
scuttle,  the  hold,  the  combings,  and  the  flue  of  the  stove. 
Little  thought  had  I  then  of  those  things,  though  now  by 
the  eye  of  memory  I  see  them,  and  also  the  sinuous  trail  of 
red  water  that  seemed  to  craWl  over  the  dark  sea  from  the 
boat  afire  to  the  boat  I  sailed  in.  I  had  stepped  my  mast 
and  hoisted  sail  before  yet  I  knew  what  impulse  possessed 
me,  but  with  my  hand  on  the  tiller  to  go  to  the  relief  of 
the  men  in  peril  On  a  sudden  I  was  seized  with  a  mighty 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


29T 

fear,  and  it  was  as  though  a  ghostly  hand  laid  on  me  from  be¬ 
hind,  and  a  voice  above  the  tumult  of  that  moment  seemed 
to  cry  in  my  ears  :  “  Not  for  you,  not  for  you.”  Then  in 
great  terror  I  turned  my  boat’s  head  away  from  the  burn¬ 
ing  smack,  and  as  I  did  so  the  ghostly  hand  did  relax,  and 
the  voice  did  cease  to  peal  in  mine  ears. 

“They  will  drop  into  their  dingy,”  I  said  with  myself. 
“  Yes,”  I  said,  as  the  sweat  started  cold  from  my  forehead, 
“they  will  drop  into  the  dingy  and  be  saved  ;”  and  turn¬ 
ing  my  head  I  saw,  by  the  flame  of  the  fire,  that  over  the 
bulwark  at  the  stern  two  men  were  tumbling  down  into 
the  small-boat  that  they  hauled  behind.  And  I  sped  away 
in  agony,  for  now  I  knew  how  deep  was  the  wrath  upon 
me,  that  it  was  not  for  me  so  much  as  to  stretch  my  ac¬ 
cursed  hand  to  perishing  men  to  save  them.  Scarce  had  I 
gone  a  cable’s-length  when  a  great  shout,  mingled  with 
oaths,  made  me  to  turn  my  head,  thinking  the  crew  of  the 
boat  were  crying  curses  down  on  me,  not  knowing  me,  for 
deserting  them  in  their  peril,  but  I  was  then  in  the  tunnel 
of  smoke  wherein  I  might  not  be  seen,  and,  lo,  I  saw  that 
the  dingy  with  the  two  men  was  sheering  off,  and  that 
other  two  of  their  mates  were  left  on  the  burning  boat. 

“Haul  the  wind  and  run  the  waistrels  down,  d - - 

them,”  shouted  one  of  the  two  men  on  the  smack,  and 
amid  the  leaping  flames  the  mainsail  shot  up  and  filled, 
and  a  man  stood  to  the  tiller,  and  with  an  oath  he  shouted 
to  the  two  in  the  small-boat  that  for  their  treachery  they 
should  go  down  to  hell  straightway. 

In  the  glare  of  that  fierce  light  and  the  turmoil  of  that 
moment  my  eyes  grew  dim,  as  they  had  been  on  the  day 
of  my  cutting  off,  and  I  squeezed  their  lids  together  to  re¬ 
lieve  them  of  water.  Then  I  saw  how  fearful  a  thing  was 
going  on  within  my  cable’s-length.  Two  men  of  *a-xrew 
of  four  in  the  burning  smack  had  got  themselves  into  the 
small-boat  and  cleared  off  without  thought  of  their  com¬ 
rades  who  were  struggling  to  save  their  craft,  and  now  the 
two  abandoned  men,  doomed  to  near  death  in  fire  or  wa¬ 
ter,  were  with  their  last  power  of  life,  and  in  life’s  last  mo¬ 
ments — for  aught  they  could  tell — thirsting  for  deadly  ven¬ 
geance.  On  the  smack  went,  with  its  canvas  bellied,  and 
the  flames  shooting  through  and  hissing  over  it,  but  just 
as  it  came  by  the  small-boat  the  men  therein  pulled  to  the 
windward  and  it  shot  past. 

Ere  this  was  done,  and  while  the  smack’s  bow  was  deaof 

on  for  the  dingy,  l  too  had  sheered  round  and  was  beating 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*98 

up  after  the  burning  boat,  and  when  the  men  thereon  saw 
me  come  up  out  of  the  smoke  they  ceased  to  curse  their 
false  comrades  and  made  a  great  cry  of  thanks  to  God.  At 
a  distance  of  six  fathoms  I  laid  to,  thinking  the  men  would 
plunge  into  the  sea  and  come  to  me,  but,  apprehending  my 
thoughts,  one  shouted  me  to  come  closer,  for  that  he  could 
not  swim.  Closer  to  the  burning  smack  I  would  not  go 
from  fear  of  firing  my  own  boat,  and  I  dared  not  to  risk 
that  fate  wherein  we  might  all  have  been  swallowed  up 
together.  For  despair,  that  fortifies  some  men,  did  make 
of  me  a  coward,  and  1  stood  in  constant  terror  of  the  com¬ 
ing  oi  death.  So  I  stripped  me  of  my  jacket  and  leaped 
into  the  water  and  swam  to  the  boat,  and  climbed  its  open 
combings  as  best  I  could  through  the  flame  and  heat.  On 
the  deck  the  two  men  stood,  enveloped  in  swirling  clouds 
of  smoke,' but  I  saw  them  where  they  were,  and  pulling 
one  into  the  water  after  me,  the  other  followed  us,  and  we  _ 
reached  my  boat  in  safety. 

Then,  as  I  rubbed  my  face,  for  the  fire  had  burned  one 
cheek,  the  men  fell  to  thanking  me  in  a  shamefaced  way — 
as  in  the  manner  of  their  kind,  fearing  to  show  feeling — 
when  on  a  sudden  they  stopped  short,  for  they  had  lifted 
their  eyes,  and  in  the  flame  of  their  boat  had  seen  me,  and 
at  the  same  moment  I  had  looked  upon  them  and  known 
them.  They  were  Illiam  Quilleash  and  Edward  Teare, 
and  they  fell  back  from  me  and  made  for  the  bow,  and 
stood  there  in  silence  together. 

Taking  the  tiller,  I  bore  in  by  tacks  for  Port-le-Mary, 
and  there  I  landed  the  men,  who  looked  not  my  way  n<  r 
ever  spoke  word  or  made  sign  to  me,  but  went  off  with 
their  heads  down.  And  when  I  stood  out  again  through 
the  Poolvash  to  round  the  Spanish  Head  and  make  for  my 
moorings  in  the  sound,  and  saw  the  burning  smack  swal¬ 
lowed  up  by  the  sea  wTith  a  groan  that  came  over  the  still 
waters,  its  small-boat  passed  me  going  into  harbor,  and 
the  men  who  rowed  it  were  Crennell  and  Corkell,  and 
when  they  saw  me  they  knew  me,  and  made  a  broad  sweep 
out  of  my  course.  Now  all  this  time  the  ghostly  hand 
had  been  on  my  shoulder,  and  the  strange  voice  had 
pealed  in  mine  ears,  and  though  I  wanted  not  to  speak 
with  any  man,  nor  that  any  man  should  speak  with  me, 
yet  I  will  not  say  but  that  it  went  to  my  heart  that  I 
should  be  like  os  a  leper  from  whose  uncleanness  all  men 
should  shrink  away. 

For  many  days  hereafter  this  lay  with  a  great  trouble 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


m 


upon  me,  so  that  I  let  go  my  strong  intent  o£  walking  into 
Castletown  at  high  fair,  and  put  this  question  with  myself, 
whether  it  was  written  that  I  should  carry  me  through 
this  world  down  to  death’s  right  ending.  Not  as  before 
did  I  now  so  deeply  abhor  myself  ;  but  felt  for  myself  a 
secret  compassion.  In  truth,  I  had  no  bitterness  left  in 
my  heart  for  my  fellow-men,  but,  tossed  with  the  fear  that 
if  I  lived  alone  much  longer  I  must  surely  lose  my  reason, 
and  hence  my  manhood,  sinking  down  to  the  brute,  this 
consideration  fell  with  weight  upon  me.  What  thou  hast 
suffered  is  from  men  who  know  thy  crime,  and  stand  in 
terror  of  the  curse  upon  thee,  wherein  thou  art  so  blotted 
out  of  the  book  of.  the  living  that  without  sin  none  may 
look  thy  way.  Go  therefore  where  no  man  knows  thee, 
and  the  so  heavy  burden  thou  bearest  will  straightway  fall 
from  thee.  Now,  at  this  thought  my  heart  was  full  of 
comfort,  and  I  went  back  to  my  former  design  of  leaving 
this  place  forever.  But  before  I  had  well  begun  what  I 
was  minded  to  do  a  strange  accident  befelk  me,  and  the 
relation  thereof  is  as  followeth. 

By  half-flood  of  an  evening  late  in  autumn — for  though 
the  watch  showed  short  of  six  the  sun  was  already  down 
,  —I  left  my  old  moorings  inside  the  rocks  of  Kitterland, 
thinking  to  slip  anchor  there  no  more.  The  breeze  was 
Iresh  in  the  sound,  and  outside  it  was  stiff  from  the  nor’- 
east,  and  so  I  ran  out  with  a  fair  wind  for  Ireland,  for  I 
had  considered  with  myself  that  to  that  country  I  would 
go,  because  the  people  there  are  tender  of  heart  and  not 
favored  by  God.  For  a  short  while  I  had  enough  to  think 
of  in  managing  my  cordage,  but  wrhen  I  was  well  away 
to  sou’-west  of  the  Calf  suddenly  the  wind  slackened. 
Then  for  an  hour  full  I  stood  by  the  tiller  with  little  to  do, 
and  looked  back  over  the  green  waters  to  the  purple 
mountains  vanishing  in  the  dusk,  and  around  to  the  west¬ 
ern  sky,  where  over  the  line  of  sea  the  crimson  streamers 
were  still  trailing  where  the  sun  had  been,  like  as  the 
radiance  of  a  goodly  life  remains  a  while  after  the  man 
has  gone.  And  with  that  eye  that  sees  double — the  thing 
that  is  without  and  that  which  is  within — I  saw  myself  then 
in  my  little  craft  on  the  lonely  sea  like  an  uncompanion¬ 
able  bird  in  the  wide  sky,  and  my  heart  began  to  fail  me, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  my  cutting  off  I  must  have 
wept.  For  I  thought  I  was  leaving  forever  the  fair  island 
of  my  home,  with  all  that  had  made  it  dear  in  dearer  days. 
Though  it  had  turned  its  back  on  me  since,  and  knew  me 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


^00 

no  more,  but  had  blotted  out  my  name  from  its  remem¬ 
brance,  yet  it  was  mine,  and  the  only  spot  of  earth  on  all 
this  planet,  go  whither  I  would,  that  I  could  call  my  own. 
How  long  this  mood  lasted  I  hardly  can  say,  but  over  the 
boat  two  gulls  hovered  or  circled  and  cried,  and  I  looked 
up  at  their  white  transparent  wings,  for  lack  of  better  em¬ 
ployment,  until  the  light  was  gone  and  another  day  had 
swooned  to  another  night.  The  wind  came  up  with  the 
darkness,  and  more  in  heart  than  before,  I  stood  out  for 
the  south  of  Ireland,  and  reached  my  old  fishing  port  of 
Kinsale  by  the  dawn  of  the  next  day. 

Then  in  the  gentle  sun  of  that  autumn  morning  I  walked 
up  from  the  harbor  to  the  market-place,  and  there  found 
a  strange  company  assembled  about  the  inn,  and  in  the 
midst  were  six  or  seven  poor  ship-broken  men,  shoeless, 
half-naked,  and  lean  of  cheek  from  the  long  peril  and  pri¬ 
vation  that  eats  the  flesh  and  makes  the  eyes  hollow.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night  they  had  come  ashore  on  a  raft, 
having  lost  their  ship  by  foundering  twelve  days  before. 
This  I  learned  from  the  gossip  of  the  people  about  them, 
^nd  also  that  they  had  eaten  supper  at  the  inn  and  slept 
there.  While  I  stood  and  looked  on  there  came  out  in 
the  midst  of  the  group  two  other  men,  and  one  of  them 
was  their  captain  and  the  other  the  innkeeper.  And  I 
noted  well  that  the  master  of  the  inn  was  suave  to  his  tat¬ 
tered  customers,  and  spoke  of  breakfast  as  being  made 
ready. 

“  But  first  go  to  the  Mayor,”  said  he,  addressing  the  cap* 
tain,  “  and  make  your  protest,  and  he  will  lend  whatever 
moneys  you  want.” 

The  captain,  nothing  loath,  set  out  with  a  cheerful  coun¬ 
tenance  for  the  Mayor  of  the  town,  a  servant  of  the  inn 
going  with  him  to  guide  him.  The  ship-broken  crew 
stayed  behind,  and  I,  who  was  curious  to  learn  if  their  ne¬ 
cessities  would  be  relieved,  remained  standing  in  the  crowd 
around  them.  And  while  we  waited,,  and  the  men  sat  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  the  inn,  there  came  down  on  them  from 
every  side  the  harpies  that  find  sea-going  men  with  clothes. 
There  was  one  with  coats  and  one  with  guernseys,  and  one 
with  boots  of  leather  and  one  of  neat’s-skin,  and  with  these 
things  they  made  every  man  to  fit  himself.  And  if  one 
asked  the  price,  and  protested  that  he  had  got  no  money, 
the  Samaritans  laughed  and  bade  them  not  to  think  of 
price  or  money  until  their  captain  should  return  from  the 
treasury  of  the  Mayor.  The  seamen  took  all  with  good 


THE  DEEMSTER.  J01 

cheer,  and  every  man  picked  out  what  he  Wanted,  and  put 
it  on,  throwing  his  rags  aside,  laughing. 

But  presently  the  master  of  the  crew  returned,  and  his 
face  was  heavy  ;  and  when  his  men  asked  how  he  had 
fared,  and  if  the  Mayor  had  advanced  him  anything,  he 
told  them  No,  and  that  the  Mayor  had  said  he  was  no 
usurer  to  lend  money.  At  that  there  were  groans  and 
oaths  from  the  crew,  and  looks  of  bewilderment  among 
those  who  had  fetched  the  clothes  ;  but  the  innkeeper  "'.aid 
all  would  be  well,  and  that  they  had  but  to  send  for  a  mer¬ 
chant  in  the  next  street  who  made  it  his  trade  to  advance 
money  to  ship-broken  men.  This  news  brought  back  the 
light  to  the  dark  face  of  the  captain,  and  he  sent  the  ser¬ 
vant  of  the  inn  to  fetch  the  merchant. 

When  this  man  came  my  mind  misgave,  for  I  saw  the 
stamp  of  uncharity  in  his  face.  But  the  captain  told  his 
story,  whereof  the  sum  was  this  :  That  they  were  the 
English  crew  of  the  brigH3etsey,  and  were  seven  days 
out  from  Bristol,  bound  for  Buenos  Ayres,  when  they 
foundered  on  a  rock,  and  had  made  their  way  thither  on 
a  raft,  suffering  much  from  hunger  and  the  cold  ,  of  the 
nights,  and  that  they  wanted  three  pounds’  advance  on 
their  owners  to  carry  them  to  Dublin,  whence  they  could 
sail  for  their  own  port.  But  the  merchant  curled  his  hard 
lip  and  said  he  had  just  before  been  deceived  by  stran¬ 
gers,  and  could  not  lend  money  except  to  men  of  whom 
he  knew  something  ;  that  they  were  strangers,  and,  more¬ 
over,  by  their  own  words,  entitled  to  no  more  than  six 
days’  pay  apiece.  And  so  he  went  his  way. 

Hardly  had  he  gone  when  the  harpies  of  the  coats  and 
boots  and  guernseys  called  on  the  men  to  strip  off 
these  good  garments,  which  straightway  they  rolled  in 
their  several  bundles,  and  then  elbowred  themselves  out  of 
the  crowd.  The  poor  seamen,  resuming  their  rags,  were 
now  in  sad  case,  scarce  knowing  whether  most  to  curse 
their  misfortunes  or  to  laugh  at  .the  grim  turn  that  they 
were  taking,  when  the  captain,  in  a  chafe,  called  on  the 
innkeeper  to  give  breakfast  to  his  men,  for  that  he  meant 
to  push  on  to  the  next  town,  where  people  might  be  found 
who  had  more  humanity.  But  the  innkeeper,  losing  his 
by-respects,  shook  his  head,  and  asked  where  was  his  pay 
to  come  from  for  what  he  had  already  done. 

Now,  when  I  heard  this,  and  saw  the  men  rise  up  to  go 
cn  their  toilsome  way  with  naked,  bleeding  feet,  suddenly 
X  bethought  me  that,  though  I  had  little  money,  I  had 


9Q2 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


what  would  bring  money,  and  before  I  had  taken  time  to 
consider  I  had  whipped  my  watch  from  my  fob  to  thrust 
it  into  the  captain’s  hands.  But  when  I  would  have  part¬ 
ed  the  crowd  to  do  so,  on  a  sudden  that  same  ghostly 
hand  that  I  have  before  mentioned  seemed  to  seize  me 
from  behind.  Then  on  the  instant  I  faced  about  to  hasten 
away,  for  now  the  struggle  within  me  was  more  than  I 
could  bear,  and  I  stopped  and  went  on,  and  stopped  again 
and  again  went  on,  and  all  the  time  the  watch  was  in  my 
palm,  and  the  ghostly  hand  cn  my  shoulder.  At  last, 
thinking  sure  that  the  memory  of  the  seven  sea-going 
men,  hungry  and  ill-clad,  would  follow  me,  and  rise  up  to 
torment  me  on  land  and  sea,  I  wheeled  around  and  ran 
back  hot-foot  and  did  as  I  was  minded.  Then  I  walked 
rapidly  away  from  the  market-place,  and  passing  down  to 
the  harbor,  I  saw  a  Peeltown  fisherman,  and  knew  that  he 
saw  me  also. 

Now,  I  should  have  been  exceeding  glad  if  this  thing 
had  never  befallen,  for  though  it  made  my  feeling  less  un¬ 
gentle  toward  the  two  men,  my  old  shipmates,  who  had 
turned  from  me  as  from  a  leper  when  I  took  them  from 
the  burning  boat,  yet  it  brought  me  to  a  sense  that  was 
full  of  terror  to  my  oppressed  spirit,  namely,  that  though 
1  might  fly  to  lands  where  men  knew  nothing  of  my  great 
crime,  yet  that  the  curse  thereof  was  mostly  within  mine 
own  afflicted  soul,  from  which  I  could  never  flee  away. 

All  that  day  I  stayed  in  my  boat,  and  the  sun  shone  and 
the  sky  was  blue,  but  my  heart  was  filled  with  darkness. 
And  when  night  fell  in  I  had  found  no  comfort,  for  then 
I  knew  that  from  my  outcast  state  there  was  no  escape. 
This  being  so,  whether  to  go  back  to  mine  own  island  was 
now  my  question.  Oh,  it  is  a  goodly  thing  to  lie  down  in 
the  peace  of  a  mind  at  ease  and  rise  up  from  the  refresh¬ 
ment  of  the  gentle  sleep.  But  not  for  me  was  that  blessed 
condition.  The  quaking  of  my  spirit  was  more  than  I 
could  well  stand  under  without  losing  my  reason,  and  in 
the  fear  of  that  mischance  lay  half  the  pain  of  life  to  me. 
Long  were  the  dark  hours,  and  when  the  soft  daylight 
came  again  I  did  resolve  that  go  back  to  my  own  island  I 
would.  For  what  was  it  to  me  though  the  world  was  wide 
if  the  little  place  I  lived  in  was  but  my  own  narrow  soul  ? 

That  night  in  the  boat  for  lack  of  the  tick  of  my  watch 
there  seemed  to  be  a  void  in  the  air  of  my  cabin.  But 
When  the  tide  was  about  the  bottom  of  the  ebb  I  heard 
the  plash  of  an  oar  alongside,  and  presently  the  sound  of 


THE  DEEMSTER ,  JO| 

something  that  fell  overhead.  Next  morning  I  found  my 
watch  lying  on  the  deck,  by  the  side  of  the  hatches. 

At  the  top  of  the  flood  I  lifted  anchor,  and  dropped 
down  the  harbor,  having  spoken  no  word  to  any  man  since 
l  sailed  into  it. 


CHAPTER  XL 

OF  HIS  GREAT  LONELINESS. 

Back  at  my  old  moorings  inside  the  rocks  of  Kitterland 
I' knew  full  well  that  the  Almighty  Majesty  was  on  this 
side  of  me  and  on  that,  and  I  had  nothing  to  look  for  now 
or  hereafter.  But  I  think  the  extremity  of  my  condition 
gave  me  some  false  courage,  and  my  good  genius  seemed 
to  say,  What  have  you  to  lament  ?  You  have  health  and 
food  and  freedom,  and  you  live  under  no  taskmaster’s  eye. 
Let  the  morning  see  you  rise  in  content,  and  let  the  night 
look  on  you  lying  down  in  thankfulness.  And  turn  not 
your  face  to  the  future  to  the  unsettling  of  your  spirit,  so 
that  when  your  time  comes  you  may  not  die  with  a  pale 
face.  Then  did  I  laugh  at  my  old  yearning  for  fellowship, 
and  asked  wherefore  I  should  be  lonely  since  I  lived  in  the 
same  planet  with  other  men,  and  had  the  same  moon  and 
stars  above  my  sleep  as  hung  over  the  busy  world  of  men. 
In  such  wise  did  I  comfort  my  torn  heart,  and  shut  it 
up  from  troubling  me,  but  well  I  knew,  that  I  was  like  to 
one  who  cries  peace  where  there  is  no  peace,  and  that  in 
all  my  empty  sophistry  concerning  the  moon  and  the  stars 
there  was  no  blood  of  poor  human  neighborliness. 

Nevertheless,  I  daily  went  about  my  businesses,  in  pur¬ 
suance  whereof  I  walked  up  to  the  place  over  the  Black 
Head  where  I  had  planted  my  corn  and  potatoes.  These 
in  their  course  I  reaped  and  delved,  cutting  the  barley 
and  rye  with  my  clasp-knife  for  sickle,  and  digging  a  bur¬ 
row  in  the  earth  for  my  potatoes.  Little  of  either  I  had, 
but  enough  for  my  frugal  needs  until  more  might  grow. 

When  my  work  was  done,  and  I  had  no  longer  any  em¬ 
ployment  to  take  me  ashore,  the  autumn  had  sunk  to  win¬ 
ter,  for  in  this  island  of  Man  the  cold  and  the  mist  come 
at  a  stride.  Then  sitting  alone  in  my  boat,  with  no  task 
save  such  as  I  could  make  for  myself,  and  no  companion 
but  little  Veg-veen,  the  strength  of  the  sophistry  where¬ 
with  I  had  appeased  myself  broke  down  pitifully.  The 


80' 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Bights  were  long  and  dark,  and  the  sun  shone  but  rarely 
for  many  days  together.  Few  were  the  ships  that  passed 
the  mouth  of  the  sound,  either  to  east  or  west  of  it,  and 
since  my  coming  to  moorage  there  no  boat  had  crossed  its 
water.  Cold  and  bleak  and  sullen  it  lay  around  my  boat, 
reflecting  no  more  the  forehead  of  the  Calf,  and  lying  now 
under  the  sunless  sky  like  a  dead  man’s  face  that  is  moved 
neither  to  smiles  nor  tears.  And  an  awful  weariness  of 
the  sea  came  to  me  then,  such  as  the  loneliest  land  never 
brought  to  the  spirit  of  a  Christian  man,  for  sitting  on  the 
deck  of  my  little  swaying  craft,  with  the  beat  of  the  sea  on 
Its  timbers,  and  the  sea-foWl  jabbering  on  Kitterland,  and 
perhaps  a  wild  colt  racing  the  wind  on  the  Calf,  it  came 
into  my  mind  to  think  that  as  far  as  eye  could  see  or  ear 
could  hear  there  was  nothing  around  me  but  the  band  of 
God.  Then  all  was  darkness  within  me,  and  I  did  oft  put 
the  question  to  myself  if  it  was  possible1  for  man  to  be  with 
God  alone  and  live. 

Now  it  chanced  upon  a  day  that  I  wanted  potatoes  out 
of  my  burrow  over  the  Black  Head,  and  that  returning 
therefrom  toward  nightfall,  I  made  a  circuit  of  the  stone 
circle  above  the  Chasms,  and  the  northernmost  side  of  it, 
midway  to  Cregneesh,  came  on  a  sight  that  arrested  my 
breath.  This  was  a  hut  built  against  a  steepness  of 
rugged  land  from  which  stones  had  sometimes  been  quar¬ 
ried.  The  walls  were  of  turf  ;  the  roof  was  of  gorse  and 
sticks,  with  a  hole  in  it  for  chimney.  Window  there  wa &- 
hone,  and  the  doorway  was  half  closed  by  a  broken  gate 
whereof  the  bars  were  intertwined  with  old  straw. 

Mean  it  was,  and  desolate  it  looked  on  the  wild  moor¬ 
land,  but  it  was  a  mark  of  the  hand  of  man,  and  I,  who 
had  dwelt  so  long  with  God’s  hand  everywhere  about  me, 
Was  touched  with  a  sense  of  human  friendliness.  Hear¬ 
ing  no  voice  within,  I  crept  up  and  looked  into  the  little 
place.  A  bed  of  straw  was  in  one  corner,  and  facing  it 
was  a  lump  of  freestone  hollowed  out  for  the  bed  of  a 
fire.  A  broken  pipe  lay  near  this  rude  hearth,  and  the 
floor  was  of  mountain  turf  worn  bare  and  hard.  Two 
sacks,  a  kettle,  a  saucepan,  and  some  potato-parings  were 
the  only  other  things  in  the  hut,  and  poor  as  it  all  was  it 
touched  me  so  that  in  looking  upon  it  I  think  my  eyes 
were  wet,  because  it  was  a  man’s  habitation.  I  remember’ 
that  as  I  turned  to  go  away  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the 
pattering  droos  on  the  roof  seemed  to  my  eye  and  ear  to 
make  the  place  more  human. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


*4 


In  going  back  to  my  boat  that  day  I  came  nearer  to 
Cregneesh  than  was  my  wont  in  the  daytime,  and  though 
the  darkness  Avas  coming  down  from  the  mountains,  I 
could  yet  see  into  the  streets  from  the  knoll  I  passed  over. 
And  there  in  the  unpaved  way,  before  a  group  of  houses,  I 
saw  a  witless  man  in  coat  and  breeches,  but  no  vest  or 
shirt,  and  with  a  rope  about  his  waist,  dancing  and  sing¬ 
ing  to  a  little  noisy  crowd  gathered  about  him. 

After  that  I  had  come  upon  the  hut  my  mind  ran  much 
on  the  thought  of  it,  and  in  three  days  or  thereabouts  1 
"went  back  to  look  at  it  again,  and  coming  near  to  it  from 
behind,  saw  sundry  beehives  of  a  rude  fashioning,  made  of 
straw  and  sticks.  Veg-veen  was  with  me,  for  he  was  now 
my  constant  company,  and  in  a  moment  he  had  bounced 
in  at  the  doorway  and  out  again  at  yet  more  speed,  with 
three  of  his  kind  close  at  his  tail.  Before  I  could  turn 
me  about  to  go  away  a  man  followed  the  dogs  out  of  the 
hut,  and  he  was  the  same  witless  being  that  I  had  seen  at  his 
dancing  in  the  streets  of  Cregneesh.  His  lip  lagged  low 
and  his  eyes  were  dull  as  a  rabbit’s  ;  on  his  head  was  a 
crownless  hat  through  which  his  hair  was  seen,  and  I  saw 
that  his  breast,  where  his  shirt  should  be,  was  blackened 
as  with  soot.  I  would  have  gone  about  my  own  employ¬ 
ments  but  he  spoke,  telling  me  not  to  fear  him,  for  it  was 
false  that  he  was  possessed,  as  hard-spoken  people  said. 
With  the  spirit  of  delusion.  I  answered  nothing  to  this, 
but  stood  and  listened  with  eyes  turned  aside,  while  the 
broken  brain  of  the  poor  creature  rambled  on. 

“They  call  me  Billy  the  Bees/' he  said,  “because  I  catch 
them  and  rear  them — look,”  and  he  pointed  to  his  hives. 
He  talked  of  his  three  dogs  and  named  them,  saying  that 
they  slept  in  a  sack  together,  and  that  in  the  same  sack 
he  slept  with  them.  Something  he  said  of  the  cold  that 
had  been  coming  latterly,  and  pointed  to  the  soot  on  his 
breast,  saying  that  it  kept  him  warm.  He  told  how  he 
made  a  circuit  of  the  farmhouses  once  a  week,  dancing  and 
singingat  all  of  them,  and  how  the  people  gave  him  bar.’ey- 
meal  and  eggs.  Much  more  he  said,  but  because  the 
method  of  it — where  method  there  was  any — has  gone 
from  my  memory  I  pass  it.  That  the  world  was  nigh 
about  its  end  he  knew  of  a  surety,  because  he  saw  that  if 
a  man  had  money  and  great  store  of  gear  it  mattered  not 
what  else  he  wanted.  These  with  other  such  words  he 
spoke  ramblingly,  and  I  stood  aside  and  answered  him 
nothing,  neither  did  I  look  up  into  his  face.  At  last  fie 
20 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3* 

®&id,  timidly,  “I  know  I  have  always  been  weak  in  my  In¬ 
tellects, M  and  hearing  that,  I  could  bear  to  hear  no  more, 
but  went  about  my  business  with  a  great  weight  of  trouble 
upon  me.  And  “  O  God,”  I  cried  that  night  in  my  agony, 
“  I  am  an  ignorant  sot,  without  the  grace  of  human  ten¬ 
derness,  or  the  gift  of  understanding.  I  am  guilty  before 
Thee,  and  no  man  careth  for  my  soul,  but  from  this  afflic¬ 
tion,  O  Almighty  Master;,  save  me;  save  me  from  thi3 
degradation,  for  it  threatens  me,  and  when  death  comes 
that  stands  at  the  foot  of  life’s  awful  account,  I  will  pay  its 
price  with  thankfulness.” 

Now,  after  this  meeting  with  the  witless  man  the  weari¬ 
ness  that  I  had  felt  of  my  home  on  the  sea  lay  the  heavier 
on  my  spirits;  and  I  concluded  with  myself  that  I  should 
forsake  my  boat  and  build  me  a  home  on  the  land  within 
sight  of  man’s  habitation.  So  I  walked  the  cliffs  from  the 
Mull  Hills  to  the  Noggin  Head,  and  at  last  I  lit  on  the 
place  I  looked  for.  Near  to  the  land  where  I  had  lately 
broken  the  fallows  and  grown  me  a  crop  of  corn  and  pota¬ 
toes,  there  were  four  roofless  walls.  Some  time  a  house 
had  stood  there,  but  being  built  on  the  brink  of  the  great 
clefts  in  the  eartli  that  we  call  the  Chasms,  it  had  shrunken 
in  some  settlement  of  the  ground.  This  had  affrighted 
the  poor  souls  who  inhabited  it,  and  they  had  left  it  to  fall 
into  ruins.  Such  was  the  tale  I  heard  long  afterward,  but 
none  came  near  it  then,  and  none  have  come  near  to  it 
since.  Save  the  four  bare  walls,  and  a  wall  that  crossed 
it  midway,  nothing  was  left.  Where  the  floor  had  been 
the  grass  was  growing ;  wormwood  was  in  the  settle  nook, 
and  whinberries  had  ripened  and  rotted  on  the  hearth. 
The  door  lintel  was  gone,  and  the  sill  of  the  window  was 
fallen  off.  There  was  a  round  patch  of  long  grass  where 
the  well  had  been,  and  near  to  where  the  porch  once  stood 
the  trammon-tree  still  grew ;  and  thus,  though  the  good 
people  who  had  lived  and  died  there,  been  born  and  bur¬ 
ied,  were  gone  from  it  forever,  the  sign  of  their  faith,  or 
their  superstition,  lived  after  them. 

Better  for  me  than  this  forsaken  place  it  was  hard  for 
any  place  to  be.  On  a  dangerous  spot  it  stood,  and  there¬ 
fore  none  would  come  anigh  it.  Near  to  Cregneesh  it 
was,  and  from  the  rising  ground  above  it  I  could  look 
down  on  the  homes  of  men.  Truly  it  looked  out  on  the  sea, 
and  had  a  great  steepness  of  shelving  rocks  going  down  to 
an  awesome  depth,  where,  on  the  narrow  beach  of  shingle, 
title  tide  beat  with  a  woeful  moan  ;  but  though  the  sea  wad 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3°7 


so  near,  and  the  sea-fowl  screamed  of  an  evening  from  the 
great  rock  like  a  cone  that  lifted  its  gaunt  finger  a  cable’s 
length  away,  yet  to  me  it  was  within  the  very  pulse  of 
liuman  life. 

So  I  set  to  work,  and  roofed  it  with  driftwood  and  turf 
and  gorse  ;  and  then,  with  lime  from  a  cliff  at  the  Tubdale 
Creek  in  the  Calf,  I  whitened  it  within  and  without,  walls 
and  roof.  A  door  I  made  in  somewise,  and  for  a  window 
I  had  a  piece  of  transparent  skin,  having  no  glass.  And 
when  all  was  made  ready  I  moved  my  goods  from  the  boat 
to  my  house,  taking  all  that  seemed  necessary — flour,  and 
meat,  and  salt,  and  my  implements,  as  well  as  my  bed  and 
the  spare  clothes  I  had,  which  were  not  many. 

I  had  been  in  no  haste  with  this  work,  being  well  con¬ 
tent  with  such  employment,  but  it  came  to  an  end  at  last, 
and  the  day  that  I  finished  my  task  was  a  day  late  in  the 
first  year  after  my  cutting  off.  This  I  knew  because  the 
nights  were  long,  and  I  had  been  trying  with  my  watch  to 
cast  on  the  shortest  day,  and  thereby  recover  my  lost  count 
of  time.  On  the  night  of  my  first  sleeping  in  my  new 
home  there  came  a  fierce  storm  of  wind  and  rain  from  the 
east.  Four  hours  the  gale  lasted,  and  often  the  gulls  were 
dashed  screaming  at  the  walls  wherein  I  sat  by  the  first 
fire  I  had  yet  kindled  on  my  hearth.  Toward  midnight 
the  wind  fell  suddenly  to  a  dead  calm,  and,  looking  out',  I 
saw  that  the  moon  was  coming  very  bright  in  its  rising 
from  behind  a  heavy  cloud  over  the  sea.  So,  wondering 
what  chance  had  befallen  my  boat — for  though  I  had  left 
it  I  had  a  tenderness  for  it  and  meant  perchance  to  use  it 
again — I  set  out  for  the  sound.  When  I  got  to  the  head 
of  the  cliff  I  could  plainly  see  the  rocks  of  Kitterland,  and 
the  whole  length  of  the  Doon  Creek,  but  where  my  boat 
had  been  moored  no  boat  could  I  see,  nor  any  trace  of  one 
from  Fistard  Head  on  the  east  to  Half-Walk  Rock  on  the 
west.  Next  morning,  under  a  bright  winter’s  sun,  I  con¬ 
tinued  the  search  for  my  boat,  and  with  the  rising  tide  at 
noon  I  saw  her  thrown  up  on  to  the  beach  of  the  Doon, 
dismasted,  without  spar  or  boom,  bilgecf  below  her  water¬ 
line,  and  altogether  a  hopeless  hulk.  I  made  some  scab- 
bling  shift  to  puli  her  above  high-water  mark,  and  then 
Went  my  ways. 

Now  this  loss,  for  so  I  considered  it,  did  at  first  much 
depress  me;  thinking,  with  a  bitter  envy  of  my  late  past, 
that  my  future  showed  me  a  far  more  unblessed  condition, 
seeing  that  I  was  now  forever  imprisoned  on  this  island. 


go8 


THE  DEEMSTER, 


and  could  never  leave  it  again  whatsoever  evil  might  be¬ 
fall.  But  when  I  had  thought  twice  upon  it,  my  mind  came 
to  that  point  that  I  was  filled  with  gratitude  :  first,  because 
the  wrecking  of  my  boat  on  the  very  day  of  my  leaving  it 
seemed  to  give  assurance  that,  in  making  my  home  on  the 
land,  I  had  done  that  which  was  written  for  me  to  do  ;  and 
next,  because  I  must  inevitably  have  been  swallowed  up 
in  the  storm  if  I  had  stayed  on  the  sea  a  single  night  lon¬ 
ger.  And  my  terror  of  death  was  such  that  to  have  es¬ 
caped  the  peril  of  it  seemed  a  greater  blessing  than  release- 
ment  from  this  island  could  ever  be. 

Every  day  thereafter,  and  oftenest  at  daybreak,  I  walked 
up  to  the  crest  of  the  rising  ground  at  the  back  of  my 
house,  and  stood  awhile  looking  down  on  Cregneesh,  and 
watching  for  the  white  smoke  that  lay  like  a  low  cloud 
over  the  hollow  place  wherein  Port  Erin  lay.  After  that 
I  had  done  this  I  felt  strangely  refreshed,  as  by  a  sense  of 
companionship,  and  went  about  my  work,  such  as  it  was, 
with  content.  But  on  a  bitter  morning,  some  time  in  De¬ 
cember,  as  I  thought,  I  came  upon  a  sight  that  well-nigh 
froze  my  heart  within  me  ;  for,  outstretched  on  the  bare 
moorland,  under  the  bleak  sky  and  in  the  lee  of  a  thick  gorse 
bush  tipped  with  yellow,  I  found  the  witless  man,  Billy 
the  Bees,  lying  cold  and  dead.  His  bare  chest  was  blue, 
as  with  starvation,  under  the  soot  wherewith  in  his  simple¬ 
ness  he  had  blackened  it,  and  his  pinched  face  told  of  pri¬ 
vation  and  of  pain.  And  now  that  he  lay  stretched  out 
dead,  I  saw  that  he  had  been  a  man  of  my  own  stature.  In 
his  hut,  which  was  farther  away  than  my  own  house  from 
the  place  where  he  lay,  there  was  neither  bite  nor  sup,  and 
his  dogs  seemed  to  have  deserted  him  in  his  poverty,  for 
they  were  gone.  The  air  had  softened  perceptibly  for 
some  minutes  while  I  went  thither,  and  as  I  returned  to 
the  poor  body,  wondering  what  to  do  with  it,  the  snow  be¬ 
gan  to  fall  in  big  flakes.  “  It  will  cover  it,”  I  said  with  my¬ 
self.  “The  snow  will  bury  it,”  I  thought ;  and  casting  a 
look  back  over  my  shoulder,  I  went  home  with  a  great  bur¬ 
den  of  trouble  up8n  me. 

All  that  day,  and  other  two  days,  the  snow  continued  to 
fall,  until  the  walls  of  my  house  were  blocked  up  to  the 
level  of  my  window,  and  I  had  to  cut  a  deep  trench  to  the 
gable  where  I  piled  my  wood.  And  for  more  than  a  week 
following,  shut  in  from  my  accustomed  walk,  I  sat  alone 
in  the  great  silence  and  tried  to  keep  my  mind  away  from 
the  one  fearful  thought  that  now  followed  it,  Remember* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


309 

ing  those  long  hours  and  the  sorry  employments  I  found 
for  them — scrabbling  on  all-fours  in  play  with  Millish-veg- 
veen,  k  ughing  loud,  and  barking  back  at  the  dog’s  shrill 
bark,  I  could  almost  weep  while  here  I  write  to  think  of 
the  tragic  business  that  was  at  the  same  time  lying  heavy 
on  my  spirit.  Christmas  Day  fell  while  thus  I  was  im¬ 
prisoned,  for  near  toumidnight  I  heard  the  church  bells 
ring  for  Oiel  Verree. 

When  the  snow  began  to  melt  I  saw  that  the  dog  put  his 
muzzle  to  the  bottom  of  the  door  instantly,  and  as  often  as 
I  drove  him  away  he  returned  to  the  same  place.  I  will 
not  say  what  awful  thing  came  to  my  mind,  knowing  a 
dog’s  nature,  and  how  near  to  my  door  lay  the  body  of  the 
witless  man  ;  only  that  I  shuddered  with  a  fear  that  was 
new  to  me  when  I  remembered  that,  by  the  curse  I  lived 
under,  the  time  would  come  when  my  unburied  bones 
would  lie  on  the  bare  face  of  the  moor.  . 

As  soon  as  the  snow  had  melted  down  to  within  a  foot’s 
depth  of  the  earth  I  went  out  of  my  house  and  turned  to¬ 
ward  where  my  poor  neighbor  lay  ;  but  before  I  had  come 
close  to  him  I  saw  that  three  men  were  coming  over  the 
hillside  by  way  of  Port-le-Mary,  and,  wishing  not  to  be 
seen  by  them,  I  crept  back  and  lay  by  the  hinder  wall 
of  my  house  to  watch  what  they  did.  Then  I  saw  that 
they  came  up  to  the  body  of  the  witless  man  and  saw  it, 
and  stood  over  it  some  minutes  talking  earnestly,  and  then 
passed  along  on  their  way.  And  as  they  walked  they 
turned  aside  and  came  close  up  by  the  front  of  my  house, 
and  looked  in  at  the  window,  pushing  the  skin  away. 
Standing  by  the  wall,  holding  Veg-veen  by  the  throat  lest 
he  should  betray  me,  I  heard  some  words  the  men  said 
each  to  the  other  before  they  went  on  again. 

“  Well,  man,  he’s  dead  at  last,  poor  craythur,”  said  one, 
“and  good-luck  too.” 

And  the  other  answered,  “Aw,  dear,  to  think,  to  think  ! 
No  man  alive  could  stand  up  agen  it.  Aw,  ter’ble, 
ter’ble  !  ” 

“I  was  at  the  Tynwald  myself  yander  day,”  said  the 
first,  “and  I’ll  give  it  a  year,  I  was  saying,  to  finish  him, 
and  behould  ye,  he’s  lying  dead  in  half  the  time.” 

Then  both  together  said,  “  God  bless  me  !  ”  and  passed 
on. 

At  that  moment  my  eyes  became  dim,  and  a  sound  as  of 
running  water  went  through  my  ears.  I  staggered  into 
my  house,  <md  sat  down  by  the  cold  hearth,  for  in  my 


3*0 


THE  DEEMSTER 


eagerness  to  go  forth  on  my  errana  at  first  awakening,  fed 
fire  had  I  kindled.  I  recalled  the  words  that  the  men  h*4 
spoken,  and  repeated  them  aloud  one  by  one,  and  very 
slowly,  that  I  might  be  sure  I  took  their  meaning  rightly. 
This  done,  I  said  with  myself,  “This  error  will  go  far,  un¬ 
til  the  wide  island  will  say  that  he  who  was  cut  off,  he  who 
is  nameless  among  men,  is  dead."  Dead  ?  What  then  ? 
I  had  heard  that  when  death  came'land  took  away  a  bad 
man,  its  twin-angel,  the  angel  of  mercy,  bent  over  those 
who  were  left  behind  on  the  earth,  and  drew  out  of  their 
softened  hearts  all  evil  reports  and  all  uncharity. 

And  a  gfeat  awe  slid  over  me  at  that  thought,  and  the 
gracious  dew  of  a  strange  peace  fell  upon  me.  But  close 
behind  it  came  the  other  thought,  that  this  error  would 
reach  my  father  also — God  preserve  him  ! — and  Mona — 
God’s  holy  grace  be  with  her  ! — and  bring  them  pain.  And 
then  it  came  to  me  to  think  that  when  men  said  in  their 
hearing,  “  He  whom  you  wot  of  is  newly  dead,"  they  would 
take  heart  and  answer,  “No,  he  died  long  ago  ;  it  was 
only  his  misery  and  God’s  wrath  that  died  yesterday." 

With  this  thought  I  rose  up  and  went  out,  and  put  some 
shovels  of  earth  over  the  body  of  my  poor  neighbor,  that 
his  face  might  be  hidden  from  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

OP  HOW  HE  KEPT  HIS  MANHOODt 

The  great  snow  lay  long  on  the  mountains,  and  died  oil 
in  its  silence  like  one  who  passes  away  in  sleep.  And  the 
spring  came,  the  summer  and  the  winter  yet  again,  and  to 
set  down  in  this  writing  all  that  befell  would  be  a  weari¬ 
ness,  for  I  feel  as  I  write  that  the  pulse  of  my  life  is  low  ; 
and  neither  am  I  one  who  can  paint  his  words  with  wit. 
My  way  of  life  has  now  grown  straight  and  even,  and  at 
my  simple  employments  I  wrought  early  and  late,  that  by 
much  bodily  toil  I  might  keep  in  check  the  distempers  of 
my  mind. 

With  my  fishing  boat,  my  gun,  which  I  had  left  behind 
me  of  design,  had  been  carried  to  the  bottom  of  the  sound, 
and  when  the  hulk  of  the  lugger  drifted  up  with  the  tide 
the  gun  was  no  longer  within  her.  This  I  took  for  a  di¬ 
rection  to  me  that  I  should  hunt  no  more,  Nevertheless,  for 


TEE  DEEMSTER. 


3H 

some  while  I  went  on  to  fish  with  a  line  from  my  small 
boat,  which,  being  on  the  beach,  the  storm  had  spared. 
But  soon  it  was  gotten  into  my  head  that,  if  to  shoot  a 
hare  was  an  ill  deed,  to  take  a  cod  was  but  a  poor  busi¬ 
ness.  Well  I  knew  that  there  was  some  touch  of  insanity 
in  such  fancies,  and  that  for  man  to  kill  and  eat  was  the 
law  of  life,  and  the  rather  because  it  was  enjoined  of  God 
that  so  he  should  do.  But  being  a  man  like  as  I  was,  cut 
off  from  the  land  of  the  living,  never  more  to  have  footing 
there  for  the  great  crime  committed  of  spilling  blood,  I 
think  it  was  not  an  ungentle  madness  that  made  me  fear 
to  take  life,  whether  wantonly  or  of  hunger’s  need.  This 
dread  lay  close  to  me,  and  got  to  extremities  whereat  one 
of  healthy  mind  might  smile.  For,  being  awakened  some 
nights  in  succession  by  the  nibble  of  a  mouse,  I  arose  from 
my  bed  in  the  dawn,  and  saw  the  wee  mite,  and  struck  it 
with  an  iron  rod  and  killed  it,  and  then  suffered  many  fool¬ 
ish  twitches,  not  from  pity  for  the  mouse,  for  of  humanity 
I  had  none  left,  but  from  the  sudden  thought  that  the 
spirit  of  its  life,  which  I  had  driven  from  its  harmless  body, 
was  now  about  me  as  an  invisible  thing.  Though  I  had 
fallen  into  such  a  weakness,  yet  I  think  that  wThere  choice 
wras  none  for  one  like  me  between  the  weakness  of  a  man 
and  the  strength  of  a  beast,  I  did  least  injury  to  my  own 
nature  and  disposition  by  yielding  with  childish  indul¬ 
gence  toward  the  gentler  side. 

And  truly,  it  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  mark  how  the  creat¬ 
ures  of  earth  and  air  wrill  answer  with  confidence  to  man’s 
tenderness,  whether,  as  with  my  saintly  father,  it  comes  of 
the  love  of  them,  or,  as  with  me,  of  the  love  of  myself. 
The  sea-fowl  flew  in  at  my  door  and  pecked  up  the  mor¬ 
sels  that  fell  at  my  feet ;  the  wild  duck  on  the  moor  would 
not  rise  though  I  walked  wTithin  a  stride  of  it ;  a  fat  hare 
nested  in  a  hole  under  my  house  and  came  out  at  dusk  to 
nibble  the  parings  of  potatoes  that  I  threw  at  the  door, 
and,  but  for  Millish-veg-veen  and  his  sly  treacheries,  with 
the  rabbits  of  the  Black  Head  I  might  have  sported  as  with 
a  kitten. 

I  could  fill  this  account  with  the  shifts  I  was  put  to  by 
want  of  many  things  that  even  a  lone  man  may  need  for 
his  comfort  or  his  cheer.  Thu£,  I  was  at  pains  to  devise  a 
substitute  for  tinder,  having  lost  much  of  all  I  had  in  the 
wrecking  of  my  boat ;  and  to  find  leather  for  the  soles  of 
my  shoes  when  they  were  worn  to  the  welt  was  long  a 
search* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Yet  herein  my  case  was  but  that  of  many  another  man 
who  has  told  of  his  privation,  and  the  less  painful  was  my 
position  for  that  I  had  much  to  begin  my  battle  of  life 
with.  In  this  first  year  of  my  unblessed  condition  my 
senses  not  only  recovered  their  wonted  strength,  but  grew 
keener  than  before  my  cutting  off.  Oft  did  my  body  seem 
to  act  without  help  of  my  intelligence,  and,  with  a  mind  on 
other  matters,  I  would  find  my  way  over  the  trackless 
moor  back  to  my  home  in  the  pitch  of  darkness,  and  never 
so  much  as  stumble  by  a  stone.  When  the  wind  was  from 
the  north,  or  when  the  air  lay  still,  I  could  hear  the  church 
bells  that  rang  in  the  market  square  at  Castletown,  and 
thereby  I  knew  what  the  day  of  the  week  was.  None  came 
nigh  to  my  dwelling,  but  if  a  man  passed  it  by  at  the  space 
of  two  furlongs,  I  seemed  to  feel  his  tread  orr  the  turf. 

And  now,  as  I  hold  the  pen  for  these  writings,  my  hand 
is  loath  and  my  spirit  is  not  fain  to  tell  of  the  strange  hu¬ 
mors  of  these  times.  So  ridiculous  and  yet  so  tragic  do 
they  look  as  they  come  back  to  me  in  the  grave.-clothes  of 
memory,  that  my  imagination,  being  no  longer  turned 
wayward,  shrinks  from  them  as  sorry  things  that  none 
shall  see  to  be  of  nature  save  he  who  has  lived  in  an  out¬ 
cast  state.  But  if  the  eyes  I  look  for  should  ever  read 
these  lines,  the  tender  soul  behind  them  will  bring  me  no 
laughter  for  my  pains,  and  I  ask  no  tears.  Only  for  my 
weakness  let  it  be  remembered  that  the  terror  of  my  life 
was,  that  the  spirit  of  madness  and  of  the  beast  of  the  field 
waited  and  watched  to  fall  upon  me  and  to  destroy  the 
spirit  of  the  man  within  me. 

It  is  not  to  be  expressed  with  what  eagerness  I  strove  to 
live  in  my  solitude  as  a  man  should  live  in  the  company  of 
his  fellows.  Down  to  the  pettiest  detail  of  personal  man¬ 
ners,  I  tried  to  do  as  o'.her  men  must  be  doing.  Whatsoever 
seemed  to  be  the  habit  of  a  Christian  man  that  I  practised, 
and  (though  all  alone  and  having  no  man’s  eye  to  see  me) 
with  a  grin  and  awesome  earnestness.  Thus  before  food. 
I  not  only  washed  but  dressed  afresh,  taking  off  the  sea- 
boots  or  the  curranes  I  worked  in,  and  putting  on  my 
shoes  with  silver  buckles.  My  seaman’s  jacket  I  removed 
for  a  long  coat  of  blue,  and  I  was  careful  that  my  shirt 
was  spotless.  In  this  wise*I  also  never  failed  to  attire  my- 
self  in  the  evening  of  the  day  for  the  short  hours  of  rest 
between  my  work  and  my  bed.  That  my  cheeks  should 
be  kept  clean  of  hair,  and  that  the  hair  of  my  head  should 
pever  outgrow  itself,  was  a  constant  care,  for  I  stood  ia 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*3 


year  of  the  creeping  consciousness  which  my  face  in  the 
glass  might  bring  me,  that  I  was  other  than  other  men. 
But  I  am  loath  to  set  down  my  little  foolish  formalities  on 
sitting  to  meat  and  rising  from  it,  and  the  silly  ceremonies 
wherewith  I  indulged  myself  at  going  abroad  and  coming 
home.  Inexpressibly  comic  and  ridiculous  some  of  them 
would  seem  to  me  now,  but  for  the  tragic  meaning  that  in 
my  terror  underlay  them.  And  remembering  how  much 
a  defaulter  I  had  been  in  all  such  courtesies  of  life  when 
most  they  were  called  for,  I  could  almost  laugh  to  think 
how  scrupulous  I  was  in  their  observance  when  I  was  quite 
alone,  with  never  an  eye  to  see  me,  what  I  did  or  how  I 
was  clad,  or  in  what  sorry  fashion  I  in  my  solitude  ac¬ 
quitted  myself  like  a  man. 

But  though  I  could  be  well  disposed  to  laugh  at  m3 
notions  of  how  to  keep  my  manhood  while  compelled  to 
live  the  life  of  a  beast,  alone  like  a  wolf  and  useless  for 
any  purposes  of  man  or  the  world,  it  is  not  with  laughter 
that  I  recall  another  form  of  the  insanity  that  in  these 
times  possessed  me.  This  was  the  conviction  that  l  was 
visited  by  Ewan,  Mona,  and  my  father.  Madness,  I  call 
it,  but  never  did  my  pulse  beat  more  temperately  or  my 
brain  seem  clearer  than  when  conscious  of  these  visita¬ 
tions.  If  I  had  spent  the  long  day  delving,  or  gathering 
limestone  on  the  beach  of  the  Sound,  and  returned  to  my 
house  at  twilight,  I  would  perhaps  be  suddenly  aware  as 
I  lifted  the  latch — having  thought  only  of  my  work  until 
then — that  within  my  kitchen  these  three  sat  together,  and 
that  they  turned  their  eyes  to  me  as  I  entered.  Nothing 
would  be  more  convincing  to  my  intelligence  than  that  I 
actually  saw  what  I  #ay,  and  yet  I  always  seemed  to  know 
•  that  it  was  not  with  my  bodily  eyes  that  I  was  seeing. 
These  indeed  were  open,  and  I  was  broad  awake,  with 
plain  power  of  common  sight  on  common  things — my 
stool,  my  table,  the  settle  I  had  made  myself,  and  perhaps 
the  fire  of  turf  that  burned  red  on  the  hearth.  But  over 
this  bodily  vision  there  was  a  spiritual  vision  more  stable 
than  that  of  a  dream,  more  soft  and  variable  than  that  of 
material  reality,  in  which  I  clearly  beheld  Ewan  and  Mona 
and  my  father,  and  saw  their  eyes  turned  toward  me. 
Madness  it  may  have  been,  but  I  could  say  it  at  the  foot 
of  the  White  Throne,  that  what  I  speak  of  I  have  seen  not 
once  or  twice,  but  many  times. 

And  well  I  remember  how  these  visitations  affected  me 
first  as  a  terror,  for  when  on  a  6uddon  they  came  to  me  4$ 


3*4 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


I  lifted  the  latch  I  would  shrink  back  and  go  away  again* 
and  return  to  my  house  with  trembling ;  and  then  as  a 
strange  comfort,  for  they  were  a  sort  of  silent  company  in 
my  desolation.  More  than  once,  in  these  days  of  great 
loneliness,  did  I  verily  believe  that  I  had  sat  me  down  in 
the  midst  of  the  tree  to  spend  a  long  hour  in  thinking  of 
the  brave  good  things  that  might  have  been  for  all  of  us 
but  for  my  headstrong  passion,  helped  out  by  the  cruel 
tangle  of  our  fate. 

One  thing  I  noted  that  even  yet  seems  strange  in  the 
hours  when  my  imagination  is  least  given  to  waywardness. 
Throughout  the  period  wherein  I  lived  in  the  boat,  and 
for  some  time  after  I  removed  me  to  my  house,  the  three 
1  have  named  seemed  to  visit  me  together  ;  but  after  that 
I  had  found  my  witless  neighbor  lying  dead  on  the  moor, 
and  after  that  I  had  heard  the  converse  of  the  men  who 
mistook  his  poor  body  for  my  own,  the  visitations  of  Mona 
and  my  father  ceased  altogether,  and  Ewan  alone  did  I 
afterward  seem  to  see.  This  I  pondered  long,  and  at 
length  it  fastened  on  me  with  a  solemn  conviction  that 
what  I  had  looked  for  had  come  about,  and  that  the  error 
that  I  was  a  dead  man  had  reached  the  ears  of  my  father 
and  of  Mona.  With  Ewan  I  sat  alone  when  he  came  to 
me,  and  oft  did  it  appear  that  we  were  loving  company, 
for  in  his  eyes  were  looks  of  deep  pity,  and  I  on  my  part 
had  ceased  to  rail  at  the  blind  passion  that  had  parted  us 
flesh  from  flesh. 

These  my  writings  are  not  for  men  who  will  look  at 
such  words  as  I  have  here  set  down  with  a  cold  indiffer- 
ency,  or  my  hand  would  have  kept  me  back  from  this 
revelation.  But  that  I  saw  apparently  what  I  have  de¬ 
scribed  is  as  sure  before  God  as  that  I  was  a  man  cut  off* 
from  the  land  of  the  living. 

A  more  material  sequel  came  of  the  finding  of  the  body 
on  the  moor.  I  was  so  closely  followed  by  dread  of  a  time 
that  was  coming  when  I  must  die,  and  stretch  out  my  body 
on  the  bare  ground  with  no  man  to  give  it  Christian  bur¬ 
ial  in  the  earth,  that  I  could  take  no  rest  until  I  had  de¬ 
vised  a  means  whereby  this  terror  might  not  haunt  me  in 
my  last  hours.  In  front  of  my  house  there  were,  as  I  have 
said,  the  places  we  call  the  Chasms,  wherein  the  rock  of 
this  hungry  coast  is  honeycombed  into  a  hundred  deep 
gullie*  by  the  sea.  One  of  these  gullies  I  descended  by 
mean'  of  a  cradle  of  rope  swung  overthwart  a  strong  log 
of  dtt'iwood*  md  there  I  found  a  long  shelf  of  stone,  a 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*5 


deep  fissure  In  the  earth,  a  tomb  of  shelving  rock  coated 
with  fungus  and  mould,  whereto  no  dog  could  come,  and 
wherein  no  bird  of  prey  could  lift  its  wing.  To  this  place 
[  resolved  that  I  would  descend  when  the  power  of  life  was 
on  the  point  of  ebbing  away.  Having  lowered  myself  by 
tny  cradle  of  rope,  I  meant  to  draw  the  cordage  after  me, 
and  then,  being  already  near  my  end,  to  lie  down  in  this 
close  gully  under  the  earth,  that  was  to  serve  me  for  grave 
and  death-bed. 

But  I  was  still  a  strong  man,  and,  ungracious  as  my  con¬ 
dition  was,  I  shrank  from  the  thought  of  death,  and  did 
what  I  could  to  put  by  the  fear  of  it.  Never  a  day  did  I 
fail  to  walk  to  the  crest  of  the  rising  ground  behind  me 
and  look  down  to  where  in  the  valley  lay  the  habitations 
of  men.  Life,  life,  life,  was  now  the  constant  cry  of  the 
roice  of  my  heart,  and  a  right  goodly  thing  it  seemed  to 
me  to  be  alive,  though  I  might  be  said  not  to  live,  but  only 
to  exist. 

Whether,  from  the  day  whereon  I  heafd  the  converse  of 
the  two  men  who  went  by  my  house,  I  was  ever  seen  of  any 
man  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more,  I  scarce  can  tell.  Great 
was  my  care  to  keep  out  of  the  ways  wherein  even  the 
shepherds  walked,  and  never  a  foot  seemed  to  come  within 
two  furlongs  of  these  abandoned  parts  from  the  bleak 
Black  Head  to  the  margin  of  the  sound.  But  it  happened, 
upon  a  day  toward  winter,  beginning  the  second  year  since 
my  cutting  off,  that  I  turned  toward  Port-le-Mary,  and 
walking  on  with  absent  mind,  came  nearer  than  I  had  pur¬ 
posed  to  the  village  over  the  Kallow  Point.  There  I  was 
suddenly  encountered  by  four  or  five  men  who,  much  in 
liquor,  were  playing  at  leap-frog  among  the  gorse.  Eng¬ 
lish  seamen  they  seemed  to  be,  and  perhaps  from  the  brig 
that  some  time  before  I  had  noted  where  she  lay  anchored 
to  the  lee  of  the  Carrick  Rock,  in  the  Poolvash  below.  At 
sight  of  them  I  was  for  turning  quickly  aside,  but  they 
raised  such  a  cry  and  shot  out  such  a  volley  of  levities  and 
blasphemies  that,  try  now  I  would  to  go  on,  I  could  not  but 
stop  on  the  instant  and  turn  my  face  to  them. 

Then  I  saw  that  of  me  the  men  took  no  note  whatever, 
and  that  all  their  eyes  were  on  my  dog  Millish-^eg-veen,  who 
was  with  me,  and  was  now  creeping  between  my  feet  with 
his  stump  of  a  tail  under  his  belly,  and  his  little  cunning 
face  full  of  terror.  “  Why,  here's  the  dog  that  killed  our 
monkey,"  said  one,  and  another  shouted,  “  It’s  my  old  cur, 
sure  enough/’  and  a  third  laughed  and  said  he  had  kept  a 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


316 

rod  in  pickle  for  more  than  a  year,  and  the  first  cried 
again,  “  I’ll  teach  the  beast  to  kill  no  more  lackeys.” 
Then,  before  I  was  yet  fully  conscious  of  what  was  being 
done,  one  of  the  brawny  swaggerers  made  toward  us,  and 
kicked  at  the  dog  with  the  fierce  lunge  of  a  heavy  sea¬ 
man’s  boot.  The  dog  yelped  and  would  have  made  off, 
but  another  of  the  blusterers  kicked  him  back,  and  then  a 
third  kicked  him,  and  whatever  way  he  tried  to  escape  be¬ 
tween  them,  one  of  them  lifted  his  foot  and  kicked  again. 
While  they  were  doing  this  I  felt  myself  struggling  to  'cry 
out  to  them  to  stop,  but  not  a  syllable  could  I  utter,  and, 
like  a  man  paralyzed,  I  stood  stock-still,  and  did  nothing 
to  save  my  housemate  and  only  companion  in  life.  At 
length  one  of  the  men,  laughing  a  great  roystering  laugh, 
stooped  and  seized  the  dog  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and 
swung  him  round  in  the  air.  Then  I  saw  the  poor  cur’s 
piteous  look  toward  me,  and  heard  its  bitter  cry  ;  but  at 
the  next  instant  it  was  flying  ten  feet  above  our  heads, 
and  when  it  fell  to  the  ground  it  was  killed  on  the  in¬ 
stant. 

At  that  sight  I  heard  an  awful  groan  burst  from  my 
mouth,  and  I  saw  a  cloud  of  fire  flash  before  my  eyes. 
When  next  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  was  holding  one  of 
the  men  by  a  fierce  grip  about  the  waist,  and  was  swing¬ 
ing  him  high  above  my  shoulders. 

Now,  if  the  good  God  had  not  given  me  back  my  con¬ 
sciousness  at  that  moment,  I  know  full  well  that  at  the 
next  he  who  was  then  in  my  power  would  have  drawm  no 
more  the  breath  of  a  living  man.  But  I  felt  on  a  sudden 
the  same  ghostly  hand  upon  me  that  I  have  written  of  be¬ 
fore,  and  heard  the  same  ghostly  voice  in  mine  ear.  So, 
dropping  the  man  gently  to  his  feet,  as  gently  as  a  mother 
might  slip  her  babe  to  its  cot,  I  lifted  up  my  poor  mangled 
beast  by  its  hinder  legs  and  turned  away  with  it.  And  as 
I  went  the  other  men  fell  apart  from  me  with  looks  of  ter¬ 
ror,  for  they  saw  that  God  had  willed  it  that,  with  an 
awful  strength,  should  I,  a  man  of  great  passions,  go 
through  life  in  peril. 

When  I  had  found  coolness  to  think  of  this  that  had 
happened,  I  mourned  for  the  loss  of  the  only  companion 
that  had  ever  shared  with  me  my  desolate  state  ;  but  more 
than  my  grief  for  the  dog  was  my  fear  for  myself,  remem¬ 
bering  with  horror  that  when  I  would  have  called  on  the 
men  to  desist  I  could  not  utter  one  word.  Truly,  it  may 
have  been  the  swift  access  of  anger  that  then  tied  my 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


itf 

tongue,  but  I  could  not  question  that  my  sudden  speech¬ 
lessness  told  me  I  was  losing  the  faculty  of  speech.  This 
conclusion  fastened  upon  me  with  great  pain,  and  I  saw 
that  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more  I  had  been  zealously  pre¬ 
serving  the  minor  qualities  of  humanity,  while  this  its 
greatest  faculty,  speech,  that  distinguishes  man  from  the 
brute,  had  been  silently  slipping  from  me.  Preserve  my 
power  of  speech  also  I  resolved  I  would,  and  though  an 
evil  spirit  within  me  seemed  to  make  a  mock  at  me,  and 
to  say,  “  Wherefor  this  anxiety  to  keep  your  speech,  see¬ 
ing  that  you  will  never  require  it,  being  a  man  cut  off  for¬ 
ever  from  all  intercourse  with  other  men  ?  ”  yet  I  held  to 
my  purpose. 

Then  I  asked  myself  how  I  was  to  preserve  my  speech, 
save  by  much  and  frequent  speaking,  and  how  I  was  to 
speak,  having  none — not  even  my  dog  now — to  speak  to. 
For,  to  speak  constantly  with  myself  was  a  practice  I  shrank 
from  as  leading  perchance  to  madness,  since  I  had  noted 
that  men  of  broken  wit  were  much  given  to  mumbling 
vain  words  to  themselves.  At  last  I  concluded  that  there 
was  but  one  way  for  me,  and  that  was  to  pray.  Having 
lit  on  this  thought  I  had  still  some  misgivings,  for  the  evil 
spirit  within  me  again  made  a  mock  at  me,  asking  why  I 
should  speak  to  God,  being  a  man  outside  God's  grace, 
and  why  I  should  waste  myself  in  the  misspent  desire  of 
prayer,  seeing  that  the  Heavenly  Majesty  had  set  His  face 
from  me  in  rejecting  the  atonement  of  my  life,  which  I  had 
offered  for  my  crime.  But  after  great  inward  strivings  I 
came  back  to  my  old  form  of  selfishness,  and  was  con¬ 
vinced  that,  though  when  I  prayed  God  would  not  hear 
me,  yet  that  the  yearning  and  uplooking  of  prayer  might 
be  a  good  thing  for  the  spiritual  part  of  my  nature  as  a 
man — for  when  was  the  beast  known  to  pray  ? 

At  this  I  tried  to  recall  a  few  good  words  such  as  my 
father  used,  and  at  length,  after  much  beating  of  the  wings 
of  my  memory,  I  remembered  some  that  were  the  words 
of  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  did  betake  myself  to  prayer 
in  this  manner  :  “  O  most  gracious  God,  I  tremble  to 
come  into  thy  presence,  so  polluted  and  dishonored  as  I 
am  by  my  foul  stain  of  sin  which  I  have  contracted  ;  but 
I  must  come  or  I  perish.  I  am  useless  to  any  purposes  of 
God  and  man,  and,  like  one  that  is  dead,  unconcerned  in 
the  changes  and  necessities  of  the  world,  living  only  to 
spend  my  time,  and,  like  a  vermin,  eat  of  the  fruits  of  the 
earth.  0  my  God,  I  cannot  help  it  now  ;  miserable  man 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


V* 

that  I  am,  to  reduce  myself  to  so  sad  a  state  that  I  neither 
am  worthy  to  come  to  Thee  nor  dare  I  stay  from  Thee. 
The  greatness  of  my  crime  brings  me  to  my  remedy  ;  and 
now  I  humbly  pray  Thee  to  be  merciful  to  my  sin,  for  ;t 
is  great.” 

And  this  prayer  I  spoke  aloud  twice  daily  thenceforward, 
at  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun,  going  out  of  m»y 
house  and  kneeling  on  the  turf  on  the  top  of  the  Black 
Head.  And  when  I  had  prayed  I  sang  what  I  could  remem¬ 
ber  of  the  psalm  that  runs,  “  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have 
been  in  trouble,  that  I  may  learn  Thy  statutes.” 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  myself,  a  solitary  man  in  that  lone 
place,  with  the  sea  stretching  wide  below  me,  and  only  the 
sound  of  its  heavy  beat  on  the  rocks  rising  oyer  me  in  the 
quiet  air. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

OP  THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  CURS*. 

Thus  far  have  I  written  these  four  days  past,  amid  pain 
and  the  quick  lessening  of  the  powers  of  life.  In  sleepless 
hours  of  the  night  I  have  made  this  writing,  sitting  oftenest 
by  the  light  of  my  feeble  candles  until  the  day  has  been 
blue  oyer  the  sea.  And  now  that  I  glance  back  and  see 
my  own  heart  in  the  mirror  I  have  made  for  it,  I  am  like 
to  one  who  has  been  brought  through  a  fearsome  sickness, 
that  has  left  its  marks  upon  him,  to  look  for  the  first  time 
at  his  altered  face  in  the  glass.  And  can  it  be  that  I,  who 
have  penned  these  words,  am  the  man  of  seven  years  ago  ? 
Ah,  now  I  see  how  profound  has  been  the  change  that  my 
great  punishnent  has  made  in  me,  and  perceive  the  end  of 
God  in  refusing  my  poor  atonement  of  life  for  life,  and 
cutting  me  off  from. among  men. 

I  will  not  say  that  what  I  have  already  written  has  not 
cost  me  some  pangs,  and  perhaps  some  tears.  But  now  I 
am  come  to  that  place  where  I  must  tell  of  the  great  turn¬ 
ing-point  in  my.  sad  state,  and  though  the  strength  fails 
me  wherewith  I  hold  the  pen  to  write  of  it,  my  spirit  rises 
before  it  like  as  the  lark  awakened  by  the  dawn. 

This  year — surely  the  darkest  within  the  memory  of  our 
poor  people  of  Man — began  with  more  than  its  share  of  a 
winter  of  heavy  rains.  The  spring  that  followed  was  also 
rainy,  and  when  I  looked  for  the  summer  to  begin,  the 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


SI# 

rains  were  still  incessant.  Heavy  and  sodden  was  the 
ground  even  of  the  moor  whereon  I  lived,  so  that  my  feet 
sank  into  it  as  into  a  morass,  and  much  of  the  seed  I  sowed 
was  washed  from  it  and  wasted.  When  at  length  the  long 
rains  ceased  to  fall  the  year  was  far  worn  into  June,  and 
then  the  sun  came  quick  and  hot.  My  house  stood  on  a 
brow  descending  to  the  cliffs  of  the  coast,  and  beneath  me 
were  less  than  two  feet  of  mould  above  the  rock  ;  but  when 
the  great  heat  came  after  the  great  rain,  out  of  the  ground 
there  arose  a  thick  miasmic  mist  that  filled  the  air,  ob¬ 
scured  the  light,  lay  heavy  in  sweat  upon  mjf  hair  and 
flesh,  and  made  the  walls  and  floor,  the  furniture,  and  the 
bed  of  my  home,  damp  and  dripping  with  constant  dew. 

Quickly  I  set  myself  to  the  digging  of  deep  trenches 
that  went  vertically  down  the  brow  to  the  cliff  head,  and 
soon  the  ground  about  me  across  many  acres  was  drained 
dry.  But  though  I  lived  in  a  clear  air,  and  could  now  see 
the  sun  as  well  as  feel  it,  yet  I  perceived  that  the  mists 
stood  in  a  wide  half-circle  around  me  like  walls  of  rain 
seen  afar,  while  the  spot  whereon  you  stand  is  fair  and  in 
the  sunshine.  In  my  daily  walks  to  the  top  of  the  moor  I 
could  no  longer  see  the  houses  of  Cregneesh  for  the  cloud 
of  vapor  that  lay  over  it,  and  when  I  walked  to  the  Kallow 
Head  for  the  first  time  since  the  day  I  lost  my  dog,  the 
basin  below,  where  Port-le-Mary  stands,  was  even  as  avast 
vaporous  sea,  without  one  islet  of  house  or  hill. 

My  health  suffered  little  from  this  unaccustomed  humid¬ 
ity,  for  my  bodily  strength  was  ever  wonderful ;  but  my 
spirits  sank  to  a  deep  depression,  and  oft  did  I  wonder  how 
the  poor  souls  must  fare  who  lived  on  the  low,  wet  Cur- 
raghs  near  to  where  my  own  home  once  lay.  From  day 
to  day,  and  week  to  week,  the  mist  continued  to  rise  from 
the  dank  ground  under  the  hot  sun,  and  still  the  earth 
came  up  in  thick  clods  to  the  spade. 

The  nights  alone  were  clear,  and  toward  midsummer 
I  was  witness  to  strange  sights  in  the  heavens.  Thus  I 
saw  a  comet  pass  close  across  the  island  from  coast  to  coast, 
with  a  visible  motion  as  of  quivering  flame.  What  this 
visitation  could  foretell  I  pondered  long  and  sadly,  and 
much  I  hungered  for  knowledge  of  what  was  being  done 
in  the  world  of  men.  But  therein  it  seemed  to  my  way¬ 
ward  mind  that  I  was  like  a  man  buried  in  the  churchyard 
while  he  is  yet  alive,  who  hears  the  bell  in  the  tower  that 
peals  and  tolls,  but  has  no  window  in  his  tomb  from  which 
to  see  who  comes  to  rejoice,  and  who  to  mourot 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*> 

When  the  fleet  of  fishing-boats  should  have  put  out  from 
Port  Erin  for  the  ground  that  lies  south  of  the  Calf,  scarce  a 
sail  could  I  see,  and  not  a  boat  had  I  noted  coming  from 
the  Poolvash,  where  Port-le-Mary  stands  above  the  bay. 
From  the  top  of  the  Mull  Hills  I  could  faintly  descry  the 
road  to  Castletown,  but  never  a  cart  on  market-day  seemed 
to  pass  over  it.  Groups  of  people  I  vaguely  saw  standing 
together,  and  once,  at  mid-day,  from  the  middle  of  a  field 
of  new-mown  hay,  there  came  to  me  the  sounds  of  singing 
and  prayer,  Oftener  than  at  any  period  during  my  soli¬ 
tary  life,  I  saw  men  on  the  mountains  or  felt  their  presence 
near  me,  for  my  senses  were  grown  very  keen.  Oftener, 
also,  than  ever  before,  the  sound  of  church  bells  seemed  to 
come  through  the  air.  And  going  to  the  beach  where  my 
shattered  boat  lay,  I  one  day  came  upon  another  boat 
beating  idly  down  the  waters  of  the  sound,  her  sails  flap¬ 
ping  in  the  wind,  and  no  hand  at  her  tiller.  I  stood  to 
watch  while  the  little  craft  came  drifting  on  with  the  flow 
of  the  tide.  She  ran  head  on  to  the  cliff  at  Fistard,  and 
then  I  went  down  to  her,  and  found  never  a  living  soul 
aboard  of  her. 

From  these  and  other  startling  occurrences  that  came  to 
me  vaguely,  as  if  by  the  one  sense  of  the  buried  man,  I 
felt  that  with  the  poor  people  of  this  island  all  was  not 
well.  But  nothing  did  I  know  of  a  certainty  until  a  day 
toward  the  first  week  of  September — as  I  have  reckoned 
it — and  then  a  strange  thing  befell. 

The  sun  was  not  shining,  and  when  there  was  no  sun 
there  was  little  mist.  A  strong  wind,  too,  had  got  up  from 
the  northeast,  and  the  atmosphere  over  land  and  sea  grew 
clearer  as  the  day  wore  on.  The  wind  strengthened  after 
the  turn  of  the  ebb,  and  at  half-flood,  which  was  toward 
three  in  the  afternoon,  it  had  risen  to  the  pitch  of  a  gale, 
with  heavy  swirling  rain.  The  rain  ceased  in  a  few  hours, 
and  in  the  lift  of  the  heavy  clouds  I  could  see  from  the 
rising  ground  above  my  house  a  brig  with  shortened  sail 
toiling  heavily  to  the  southwest  of  the  Calf.  She  was 
struggling  in  the  strong  currents  that  flow  there  toget  into 
the  lee  of  the  island,  but  was  beaten  back  and  back,  never 
catching  the  shelter  of  the  cliffs  for  the  rush  of  the  wind 
that  swept  over  them.  The  darkness  was  falling  in  while 
I  watched  her,  and  when  she  was  swept  back  and  hidden 
from  me  by  the  forehead  of  the  Calf  I  turned  my  face 
homeward.  Then  I  noticed  that  on  the  top  of  the  Mull  Hills 
a  great  company  of  people  had  gathered,  and  I  thought  I 


THE  DEEMSTER. 

saw  that  they  were  watching  the  brig  that  was  laboring 
heavily  in  the  sea. 

That  night  I  had  close  employment  at  my  fireside,  for  I 
was  finishing  a  coat  that  I  had  someways  fashioned  with 
my  undeft  fingers  from  the  best  pieces  of  many  garments 
that  of  themselves  would  no  longer  hold  together.  Rough 
as  a  monk's  long  sack  it  was,  and  all  but  as  shapeless,  but 
nevertheless  a  fit  companion  for  the  curranes  on  my  feet, 
which  I  had  made  some  time  before  from  the  coat  of  my 
hapless  Millish-veg-veen. 

While  l  wrought  with  my  great  sailmaker's  needle  and 
twine,  the  loud  wind  moaned  about  the  walls  of  my  house 
and  whistled  through  its  many  crevices,  and  made  the 
candle  whereby  I  worked  to  flicker  and  gutter.  Yet  my 
mind  was  more  cheerful  than  had  lately  been  its  wont, 
and  I  sang  to  myself  with  my  face  to  the  glow  of  the 
fire. 

But  when  toward  ten  o'clock  the  sea  below  sent  up  a 
louder  hiss  than  before,  followed  by  a  deeper  under¬ 
groan,  suddenly  there  was  a  clash  at  my  window,  and  a 
poor,  panting  seamew,  with  open  beak,  came  through  it 
and  fell  helpless  on  the  floor.  I  picked  up  the  storm- 
beaten  creature  and  calmed  it,  and  patched  with  the  nee¬ 
dle  the  skin  of  the  window  which  it  had  broken  by  its 
entrance. 

Then  all  at  once  my  mind  went  back  to  the  brig  labor-, 
ing  in  the  sea  behind  the  Calf.  Almost  at  the  same  mo. 
ment,  and  for  the  first  time  these  seven  years,  a  quick 
knock  came  to  my  door.  I  was  startled,  and  made  no  an¬ 
swer,  but  stood  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with 
the  frightened  bird  in  my  hand.  Before  I  was  yet  fully 
conscious  of  what  was  happening,  the  wooden  latch  of  the 
door  had  been  lifted,  and  a  man  had  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  In  another  moment  he  had  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  was  speaking  to  me. 

“  You  will  never  find  heart  to  deny  me  shelter  on  such  a 
night  as  this  ?  "  he  said. 

I  answered  him  nothing.  Surely  with  my  mind  I  did 
not  hear  him,  but  only  with  mine  ears.  I  was  like  the  one 
who  is  awakened  suddenly  out  of  a  long  dream,  and  can 
scarce  be  sure  which  is  the  dream  and  which  the  reality, 
what  is  behind  and  what  is  before. 

The  man  stumbled  a  step  forward,  and  said,  speaking 
Jalteringly,  “  I  am  faint  from  a  blow." 

He  staggered  another  pace  forward,  and  would  have 


THE  DEEMSTER 


3** 

fallen,  but  I,  recovering  in  some  measure  my  self-cona* 
mand,  caught  him  in  my  arms,  and  put  him  to  sit  on  the 
settle  before  the  hearth. 

Scarce  had  he  gained  this  rest  when  his  eyelids  trembled 
and  closed,  and  he  became  insensible.  He  was  a  large, 
swart,  and  bony  man,  bearing  in  his  face  the  marks  of 
life’s  hard  storms.  His  dress  was  plainly  the  dress  of  a 
priest,  but  of  an  order  of  priesthood  quite  unknown  to  me. 
A  proud  poverty  sat  upon  the  man,  and  before  I  yet  knew 
wherefor,  my  heart  went  out  to  him  in  a  strange,  uncertain 
reverence. 

Loosening  the  hard  collar  that  bound  his  neck,  I  made 
bare  his  throat,  and  then  moistened  his  lips  with  water. 
Some  other  offices  I  did  for  him,  such  as  with  difficulty  re¬ 
moving  his  great  boots,  which  were  full  of  water,  and 
stretching  his  feet  toward  the  fire.  I  stirred  the  peats, 
too,  and  the  glow  was  full  and  grateful.  Then  I  looked 
for  the  mark  of  the  blow  he  spoke  of,  and  found  it  where 
most  it  was  to  be  feared,  on  the  hinder  part  of  the  head. 
Though  there  was  no  blood  flowing,  yet  was  the  skull 
driven  in  upon  the  brain,  leaving  a  hollow  spot  over  a 
space  that  might  have  been  covered  by  a  copper  token. 

He  did  not  soon  return  to  consciousness,  but  toiled 
hard  at  intervals  to  regain  it,  and  then  lapsed  back  to  a 
breathless  quiet.  And  I,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do, 
took  a  basin  of  water,  lukewarm,  and  bathed  the  wound 
with  it,  damping  the  forehead  with  water  that  was  cold. 
All  this  time  the  seamew,  which  I  had  cast  from  my  hand 
when  the  priest  stumbled,  lay  in  one  corner  panting,  its 
head  down,  its  tail  up,  and  its  powerless  wings  stretched 
useless  on  either  side. 

Then  the  man,  taking  a  long  breath,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  seeing  me  he  made  some  tender  of  gratitude.  He 
told  me  that  in  being  put  ashore  out  of  the  brig  Bridget, 
from  Cork,  in  Ireland,  he  had  been  struck  on  the  head  by 
the  boom  as  it  shifted  with  the  wind,  but  that  heeding  not 
his  injury,  and  thinking  he  could  make  Port-le-Mary  to  lie 
there  that  night,  he  had  set  out  over  the  moor,  while  his 
late  comrades  of  the  brig  put  off  from  our  perilous  coast 
for  England,  whither  they  were  bound. 

So  much  had  he  said,  speaking  painfully,  when  again  he 
fell  in  unconsciousness,  and  this  time  a  strong  delirium 
took  hold  of  him.  I  tried  not  to  hear  what  then  he  said, 
for  it  seemed  to  me  an  awful  thing  that  in  such  an  hour 
of  reason’s  vanauishment  the  eye  of  man  might  look  into 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*3 


the  heart,  which  only  God’s  eye  should  see.  But  hear  him 
I  must,  or  leave  him  alone  in  his  present  need.  And  he 
talked  loudly  of  some  great  outrage  wherein  helpless 
women  were  thrown  on  the  roads  without  shelter,  and 
even  the  dead  m  their  graves  were  desecrated.  When  he 
came  to  himself  again  he  knew  that  his  mind  had  wan¬ 
dered,  and  he  told  me  that  four  years  before  he  had  been 
confessor  at  the  convent  of  Port  Royal  in  France.  He 
said  that  in  that  place  they  had  been  men  and  women  of 
the  Order  of  Jansenists,  teaching  simple  goodness  and 
piety.  But  their  convent  had  been  suppressed  by  com¬ 
mission  of  the  Jesuits,  and  being  banished  from  France, 
he  had  fled  to  his  native  country  of  Ireland,  where  now  he 
held  the  place  of  parish  priest.  More  in  this  manner  he 
said,  but  my  mind  was  sorely  perplexed,  and  I  cannot  re¬ 
call  his  words  faithfully,  or  rightly  tell  of  the  commerce 
of  conversation  between  us,  save  that  he  put  to  me  some 
broken  questions  in  his  moments  of  ease  from  pain,  and 
muttered  many  times  to  himself  after  I  had  answered  him 
briefly,  or  when  I  had  answered  him  not  at  all. 

For  the  sense  that  I  was  a  man  awakening  out  of  a 
dream,  a  long  dream  of  seven  lonesome  years,  grew 
stronger  as  he  told  of  what  traffic  the  world  had  lately 
seen,  and  he  himself  been  witness  to.  And  my  old  creep¬ 
ing  terror  of  the  judgment  upon  me  that  forbade  that  any 
man  should  speak  with  me,  or  that  I  should  speak  with 
any  man,  struggled  hard  with  the  necessity  now  before  me 
to  make  a  swift  choice  whether  I  should  turn  away  and 
leave  this  man,  who  had  sought  the  shelter  of  my  house, 
or  break  through  the  curse  that  bound  me. 

Choice  of  any  kind  I  did  not  make  with  a  conscious 
mind,  but  before  I  was  yet  aware  I  was  talking  with  the 
priest,  and  he  with  me. 

The  Priest :  He  said,  I  am  the  Catholic  priest  that  your 
good  Bishop  sent  for  out  of  Ireland,  as  you  have  heard  I 
doubt  not  ? 

Myself  :  I  answered  No,  that  I  had  not  heard. 

The  Priest  :  He  asked  me,  did  I  live  alone  in  this  house, 
and  how  long  I  had  been  here  ? 

Myself :  I  said,  Yes,  and  that  I  had  been  seven  years  in 
this  place  come  Christmas. 

The  Priest :  He  asked,  What,  and  do  you  never  go  up 
tv  the  towns  ? 

Myself  :  I  answered,  No. 

The  Priest ;  Then,  said  the  priest,  thinking  long  before 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 

ha  spoke,  you  have  not  heard  of  the  great  sickness  that 
has  broken  out  among  your  people. 

Myself :  I  told  him  I  had  heard  nothing. 

The  Priest :  He  said  it  was  the  sweating  sickness,  and 
that  vast  numbers  had  fallen  to  it  and  many  had  died.  I 
think  he  said — I  cannot  be  sure— that  after  fruitless  ef¬ 
forts  of  his  own  to  combat  the  disease,  the  Bishop  of  the 
island  had  sent  to  Ireland  a  message  for  him,  having 
heard  that  the  Almighty  had  blessed  his  efforts  in  a  like 
terrible  scourge  that  broke  out  two  years  before  over  the 
bogs  of  Western  Ireland. 

I  listened  with  fear,  and  began  to  comprehend  much 
that  had  of  late  been  a  puzzle  to  me.  But  before  the 
priest  had  gone  far  his  sickness  overcame  him  afresh,  and 
he  fell  in  another  long  unconsciousness.  While  he  lay 
thus,  very  silent  or  rambling  afresh  through  the  ways  of 
the  past,  I  know  not  what  feelings  possessed  me,  for  my 
heart  was  in  a  great  turmoil.  But  when  he  opened  his 
eyes  again,  very  peaceful  in  their  quiet  light,  but  with 
less  than  before  of  the  power  of  life  in  them,  he  said  he 
perceived  that  his  errand  had  been  fruitless,  and  that  he 
had  but  come  to  my  house  to  die.  At  that  word  I  started 
to  my  feet  with  a  cry,  but  he — thinking  that  my  thoughts 
were  of  our  poor  people,  who  would  lose  a  deliverer  by 
his  death — told  me  to  have  patience,  for  that  God  who 
had  smitten  him  down  would  surely  raise  up  in  his  stead  a 
far  mightier  savior  of  my  afflicted  countrymen. 

Then  in  the  lapses  of  his  pain  he  talked  of  the  sickness 
that  had  befallen  his  own  people :  how  it  was  due  to  long 
rains  that  soaked  the  soil,  and  was  followed  by  the  hot  sun 
that  drew  out  of  the  earth  its  foul  sweat ;  how  the  sick¬ 
ness  fell  chiefly  on  such  as  had  their  houses  on  bogs  and 
low-lying  ground  ;  and  how  the  cure  for  it  was  to  keep 
the  body  of  the  sick  person  closely  wrapped  in  blankets, 
and  to  dry  the  air  about  him  with  many  fires.  He  told 
me,  too,  that  all  medicines  he  had  yet  seen  given  for  this 
disease  were  useless,  and  being  oftenest  of  a  cooling  nat¬ 
ure  were  sometimes  deadly.  He  said  that  those  of  his 
own  people  who  had  lived  on  the  mountains  had  escaped 
the  malady.  Much  he  also  said  of  how  men  had  fled  from 
their  wives,  and  women  from  their  children  in  terror  of  the 
infection,  but  that,  save  only  in  the  worst  cases,  contagion 
from  the  sweating  sickness  there  could  be  none.  More  of 
this  sort  he  said  than  I  can  well  set  down  in  this  writing. 
Often  he  spoke  with  sore  labor,  as  though  a  strong  im* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


32S 

pulse  prompted  him.  And  I  who  listened  eagerly  heard 
what  he  said  with  a  mighty  fear,  for  well  I  knew  that  if 
death  came  to  him  as  he  foretold,  I  had  now  that  knowl¬ 
edge  which  it  must  be  sin  to  hide. 

After  he  had  said  this  the  lapses  into  unconsciousness 
were  more  frequent  than  before,  and  the  intervals  of  cool 
reason  and  sweet  respite  from  pain  were  briefer.  But  a 
short  while  after  midnight  he  came  to  himself  with  a  smile 
on  his  meagre  face  and  peace  in  his  eyes.  He  asked  me 
would  I  promise  to  do  one  thing  for  him,  for  that  he  was 
a  dying  man  ;  and  I  told  him  yes,  before  I  had  heard  what 
it  was  that  he  wished  of  me.  Then  he  asked  did  I  know 
where  the  Bishop  lived,  and  at  first  I  made  no  answer. 

Bishop’s  Court  they  call  his  house,  he  said,  and  it  lies  to 
the  northwest  of  this  island  by  the  land  they  have  named 
the  Curraghs.  Do  you  know  it  ? 

I  bent  my  head  by  way  of  assent. 

The  Priest  :  I  would  have  you  to  go  to  him,  he  said,  and 
say — The  Catholic  priest  you  sent  for  out  of  Ireland,  Father 
Dalby,  fulfilled  his  pledge  to  you  and  came  to  your  island, 
but  died  by  the  visitation  of  God  on  the  night  of  his  land¬ 
ing  on  your  shores.  Will  you  deliver  me  this  message  ? 

I  did  not  make  him  an  answer,  and  he  put  the  question 
again.  Still  my  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  and 
I  could  not  speak. 

The  Priest  :  You  need  not  fear,  he  said,  to  go  to  the 
Bishop,  for  he  is  a  holy  man,  as  I  have  heard,  without  pride 
of  worldly  place,  and  the  poor  and  outcast  are  his  constant 
guests. 

Even  yet  I  answered  nothing,  but  only  held  down  my 
head  while  my  heart  surged  within  me. 

The  Priest :  The  fame  of  him  as  a  righteous  servant  of 
God  had  gone  far  into  other  lands,  and  therefore  it  was  I, 
who  love  Protestantism  not  at  all,  and  hold  no  dalliance 
with  it,  came  to  your  island  at  his  call. 

He  took  my  hand  in  his  hands  and  asked  me  again  if  I 
would  go  to  the  Bishop  to  say  the  words  which  he  had 
given  me,  and  I,  with  swimming  eyes  that  saw  nothing  of 
the  dying  face  before  me,  bowed  my  head,  and  answered, 
I  will  go. 

Near  three  hours  longer  he  lived,  and  much  of  that  time 
he  passed  in  a  feeble  delirium.  But  just  before  the  end 
came  he  awoke,  and  motioned  to  a  small  bag  that  hung 
about  his  waist.  I  guessed  his  meaning,  and  drawing  out 
a  crucifix  I  placed  it  in  his  hands. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Then  he  passed  silently  away,  and  Death,  the  black 
carnal  that  had  knelt  at  the  gate  of  my  lone  house  these 
seven  years  of  death-in-life,  had  entered  it  at  last  to  take 
another  man  than  me. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

OF  HIS  GREAT  RESOLVE. 

When  he  had  ceased  to  breathe,  the  air  of  my  house  be¬ 
came  suddenly  void  and  empty.  With  a  great  awe  upon 
me  I  rose  and  stretched  him  out  on  the  settle,  and  covered 
his  white  face  with  a  cloth.  Then  in  the  silence  I  sat  and 
tried  to  think  of  the  strange  accident  that  had  that  night 
befallen.  One  thing  I  saw  with  a  fearful  certainty,  that 
a  great  burden  of  responsibility  had  fallen  upon  me.  I 
thought  of  the  people  of  this  island  perishing  in  their 
sickness,  and  I  remembered  that  I  alone  of  all  men  here 
knew  how  to  succor  and  save  them.  I  alone,  and  who 
was  I  ?  The  one  man  accursed  among  men  ;  the  one  man 
cut  off  for  ever  from  the  company  of  the  living  ;  the  man 
without  family  or  kin  or  name  among  the  people  ;  whose 
flesh  no  man  might  touch  with  his  flesh  ;  whose  eye  no 
other  eye  might  look  upon. 

And  thus  with  the  burden  of  responsibility  came  a  yet 
more  terrible  burden  of  doubt.  Was  it  for  me  to  break 
through  the  dread  judgment  pronounced  upon  me,  and  go 
down  among  the  people  to  heal  them  ?  And  if  I  went 
would  the  people  receive  me,  even  in  this  their  last  ex¬ 
treme  ?  Before  the  face  of  death  would  all  other  fears 
sink  out  of  their  sight?  Or,  fearing  death  itself  less  than 
the  curse,  would  they  rise  up  and  drive  me  from  them  ? 

Long  I  sat  in  the  anguish  of  black  misgivings,  and  then 
rose  and  ranged  my  room  from  side  to  side,  if  perchance  I 
might  find  some  light  in  my  darkness.  And  oft  did  the 
strangeness  of  that  night's  accidents  so  far  bewilder  me 
that  for  an  instant  it  would  seem  that  I  must  be  in  a  dream. 
Once  I  lifted  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  on  the  settle  that 
I  might  be  sure  that  I  was  awake. 

At  length  it  fixed  itself  on  my  mind  that  whatsoever  the 
judgment  upon  me,  and  whatsoever  the  people’s  terror  of 
it,  I  had  no  choice  but  to  bear  the  burden  that  was  now 
mine  own,  Go  down  among  my  sick  countrymen  I  should 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


3*7 

and  must,  let  the  end  be  what  it  would !  Accursed  man 
though  I  was,  yet  to  fulfil  the  dead  priest’s  mission  was  a 
mission  wherewith  God  himself  seemed  to  charge  me  ! 

And  now  I  scarce  can  say  how  it  escaped  me  that  my 
first  duty  was  to  take  the  body  of  the  priest  who  had  died 
in  my  house  to  one  of  the  churchyards  for  Christian  bur¬ 
ial.  There  must  have  been  some  end  of  Providence  in  my 
strange  forgetfulness,  for  if  this  thing  had  but  come  into 
my  wild  thoughts,  and  I  had  indeed  done  what  it  was  fit¬ 
ting  that  I  should  do,  then  must  certain  wonderful  conse¬ 
quences  have  fallen  short  of  the  blessing  with  which  God 
has  blessed  them. 

What  I  did,  thinking  no  evil,  was  to  pick  up  my  spade 
and  go  out  on  the  moor  and  delve  for  the  dead  man  a  shal¬ 
low  grave.  As  I  turned  to  the  door  I  stumbled  over  some¬ 
thing  that  lay  on  the  floor.  Stopping  to  look  at  it,  I  found 
it  to  be  the  poor  seamew.  It  was  dead  and  stiff,  and  had 
still  its  wings  outstretched  as  if  in  the  act  of  flight. 

I  had  not  noted  until  now,  when  with  a  fearful  glance 
backward  I  stepped  out  into  the  night,  that  the  storm  had 
gone.  A  thick  dew-cloud  lay  deep  over  the  land,  and  the 
round  moon  was  shining  through  it.  I  chose  a  spot  a  lit¬ 
tle  to  the  south  of  the  stone  circle  on  the  Black  Head,  and 
there  by  the  moon’s  light  I  howket  a  barrow  of  earth. 
The  better  part  of  an  hour  I  wrought,  and  when  my  work 
was  done  I  went  back  to  my  house,  and  then  the  dead  man 
was  cold.  I  took  a  piece  of  old  canvas,  and  put  it  about 
the  body,  from  head  to  feet,  wrapping  it  over  the  clothes, 
and  covering  the  face.  This  done,  I  lifted  the  dead  in  my 
arms  and  carried  it  out. 

Very  hollow  and  heavy  was  the  thud  of  my  feet  on  the 
turf  in  that  uncertain  light.  As  I  toiled  along  I  recalled 
the  promise  that  I  had  given  to  the  priest  to  see  my  father 
and  speak  with  him.  This  memory  brought  me  the  sore 
pain  of  a  wounded  tenderness,  but  it  strengthened  my  re¬ 
solve.  When  I  had  reached  the  grave  which  I  had  made 
the  night  was  near  to  morning,  the  dew-cloud  had  lifted 
away,  and  out  of  the  unseen,  murmuring  sea  that  lay  far 
and  wide  in  front  of  me  a  gray  streak,  like  an  arrow’s  barb, 
was  shooting  up  into  the  darkness  of  the  sky. 

One  glance  more  I  took  at  the  dead  man’s  face  in  that 
vague  fore-dawn,  and  its  swart  meagreness  seemed  to  have 
passed  off  under  death’s  composing  hand. 

I  covered  the  body  with  the  earth,  and  then  I  said  my 
prayer,  for  it  was  nigh  to  my  accustomed  hour.  Also  \ 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


926 

sung  my  psalm,  kneeling  with  my  face  toward  the  sea. 
And  while  I  sung  in  that  dank  air  the  sky  lightened  and 
the  sun  rose  out  of  the  deep. 

I  know  not  what  touched  me  then,  if  it  was  not  the  fin¬ 
ger  of  God  himself  ;  but  suddenly  a  great  burden  seemed 
to  fall  from  me,  and  my  heart  grew  full  of  a  blessed  joy. 
And,  O  Father,  I  cried,  I  am  delivered  from  the  body  of 
the  death  I  lived  in  !  I  have  lived,  I  have  died,  and  I  live 
again ! 

I  saw  apparently  that  the  night  of  my  long  imprison¬ 
ment  was  past,  that  the  doors  of  my  dungeon  were  broken 
open,  and  that'  its  air  was  to  be  the  breath  of  my  nostrils 
no  more. 

Then  the  tears  gushed  from  mine  eyes  and  rained  down 
my  bony  cheeks,  for  well  I  knew  that  God  had  seen  that 
I,  even  I,  had  suffered  enough. 

And  when  I  rose  to  my  feet  from  beside  the  dead  man’s 
grave  I  felt  of  a  certainty  that  the  curse  had  fallen  away. 

•  «•••• 

His  Last  Words. 

Three  days  have  gone  since  last  I  put  my  hand  to  this 
writing,  and  now  I  know  that  though  the  curse  has  fallen 
from  me  yet  must  its  earthly  penalties  be  mine  to  the 
end.  Sorely  weary,  and  more  sorely  ashamed,  I  have, 
within  these  three  hours  past,  escaped  from  the  tumult  of 
the  people.  How  their  wild  huzzas  ring  in  my  ears ! 
“  God  bless  the  priest !  ”  “  Heaven  save  the  priest !  99 

Their  loud  cries  of  a  blind  gratitude,  how  they  follow  me  ! 
Oh,  that  I  could  fly  from  the  memory  of  them,  and  wipe 
them  out  of  my  mind  !  There  were  those  that  appeared 
to  know  me  among  the  many  that  knew  me  not.  The 
tear-stained  faces,  the  faces  hard  and  stony,  the  faces 
abashed  and  confused — how  they  live  before  my  eyes ! 
And  at  the  Tynwald,  how  the  children  were  thrust  under 
my  hand  for  my  blessing  !  My  blessing — mine  !  and  at 
the  Tynwald!  Thank  God,  it  is  all  over!  I  am  away 
from  it  forever.  Home  I  am  at  last,  and  for  the  last 
time. 

Better  than  three  weeks  have  passed  since  the  priest 
died  in  my  house  and  I  buried  him  on  the  moor.  What 
strange  events  have  since  befallen,  and  in  what  a  strange, 
new  world !  The  Deemster’s  terrible  end,  and  my  qwd 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


&9 


going  with  the  priest’s  message  to  the  Bishop,  my  father. 
But  I  shall  not  live  to  set  it  down.  Nor  is  it  needful  so  to 
do,  for  she  whom  I  write  for  knows  all  that  should  be 
written  henceforward.  Everything  she  knows  save  one 
thing  only,  and  if  this  writing  should  yet  come  to  her 
hand  that  also  she  will  then  learn. 

God’s  holy  grace  be  with  her !  I  have  not  seen  her. 
The  Deemster  I  have  seen,  the  Bishop  I  have  spoken  with, 
and  a  living  vision  of  our  Ewan,  his  sweet  child-daughter, 
have  I  held  to  my  knee.  But  not  once  these  many  days 
has  she  who  is  dearest  of  all  to  me  passed  before  my 
eyes.  It  is  better  so.  I  shunned  her.  Where  she  was, 
there  I  would  not  go.  Yet,  through  all  these  heavy  years 
I  have  borne  her  upon  my  heart.  Day  and  night  she  has 
been  with  me.  Oh,  Mona,  Mona,  my  Mona,  apart  forever 
are  our  paths  in  this  dim  world,  and  my  tarnished  name  is 
your  reproach.  My  love,  my  lost  love,  as  a  man  I  yearned 
for  you  to  hold  you  to  my  breast.  But  I  was  dead  to  you, 
and  I  would  not  break  in  with  an  earthly  love  that  must 
be  brief  and  might  not  be  blessed  on  a  memory  that  death 
has  purified  of  its  stains.  Adieu,  adieu,  my  love,  my  own 
Mona  ;  though  we  are  never  to  clasp  hands  again,  yet  do  I 
know  that  you  will  be  with  me  as  an  unseen  presence 
when  the  hour  comes — ah  !  how  soon — of  death’s  asunder- 
ing. 

For  the  power  of  life  is  low  in  me.  I  have  taken  the 
sickness.  It  is  from  the  Deemster  that  1  have  taken  it. 
No  longer  do  I  fear  death.  Yet  I  hesitate  to  do  with  my¬ 
self  what  I  have  long  thought  that  I  would  do  when  the 
end  should  come.  “  To-morrow,”  and  “  to-morrow,”  and 
“to-morrow,”  I  say  in  my  heart,  and  still  I  am  here* 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS. 

I. 

When  the  sweating  sickness  first  appeared  in  the  island 
it  carried  off  the  lone  body  known  as  Auntie  Nan,  who  had 
lived  on  the  Curragh.  “  Death  never  came  without  an  ex¬ 
cuse — the  woman  was  old,”  the  people  said,  and  went  their 
way.  But  presently  a  bright  young  girl  who  had  taken 


33P 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


herbs  and  broths  and  odd  comforts  to  Auntie  Nan  while 
she  lay  helpless  was  stricken  down.  Then  the  people 
began  to  hold  their  heads  together.  Four  days  after  the 
girl  was  laid  to  rest  her  mother  died  suddenly,  and  two  or 
three  days  after  the  mother’s  death  the  father  was  smitten. 
Then  three  other  children  died  in  quick  succession,  and 
in  less  than  three  weeks  not  a  soul  of  that  household  was 
left  alive.  This  was  on  the  southwest  of  the  Curragh, 
and  on  the  north  of  it,  near  to  the  church  of  Andreas,  a 
similar  outbreak  occurred  about  the  same  time.  Two  old 
people  named  Creer  were  the  first  to  be  taken  ;  and  a 
child  at  Cregan’s  farm  and  a  servant  at  the  rectory  of  the 
archdeacon  followed  quickly. 

The  truth  had  now  dawned  upon  the  people,  and  they 
went  about  with  white  faces.  It  was  the  time  of  the  hay 
harvest,  and  during  the  two  hours’  rest  for  the  midday  meal 
the  haymakers  gathered  together  in  the  fields  for  prayer. 
At  night,  when  work  was  done,  they  met  again  in  the 
streets  of  the  villages  to  call  on  God  to  avert  his  threatened 
judgment.  On  Sundays  they  thronged  the  churches  at 
morning  and  afternoon  services,  and  In  the  evening  they 
congregated  on  the  shore  to  hear  the  Quaker  preachers, 
who  went  about,  under  the  shadow  of  the  terror,  without 
hinderance  or  prosecution.  One  such  preacher,  a  town- 
watch  at  Castletown,  known  as  Billy-by-Nite,  threw  up  his 
calling,  and  travelled  the  country  in  the  cart  of  a  car¬ 
rier,  prophesying  a  visitation  of  God’s  wrath,  wherein  the 
houses  should  be  laid  waste  and  the  land  be  left  utterly 
desolate. 

The  sickness  spread  rapidly,  and  passed  from  the  Cur- 
raghs  to  the  country  south  and  east  of  them.  Not  by  ones 
but  tens  were  the  dead  now  counted  day  after  aay,  and  the 
terror  spread  yet  faster  than  the  malady.  The  herring 
season  had  run  a  month  only,  and  it  was  brought  to  a 
swift  close.  Men  who  came  in  from  the  boats  after  no 
more  than  a  night’s  absence  were  afraid  to  go  up  to  their 
homes  lest  the  sickness  h".d  gone  up  before  them.  Then 
they  went  out  to  sea  no  longer,  but  rambled  for  herbs  in 
the  rank  places  where  herbs  grew,  and,  finding  them,  good 
and  bad,  fit  and  unfit,  they  boiled  and  ate  them. 

Still  the  sickness  spread,  and  the  dead  were  now  counted 
in  hundreds.  Of  doctors  there  were  but  two  in  the  isl¬ 
and,  and  these  two  were  closely  engaged  sitting  by  the 
bedsides  of  the  richer  folk,  feeling  the  pulse  with  one 
band  and  holding  the  watch  with  the  other,  Better  service 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


w 

they  did  not  do,  for  rich  and  poor  alike  fell  before  the 
sickness. 

The  people  turned  to  the  clergy,  and  got  “  beautiful 
texes,”  but  no  cure.  _They  went  to  the  old  Bishop,  and 
prayed  for  the  same  help  that  he  had  given  them  in  the 
old  days  of  their  great  need.  He  tried  to  save  them  and 
failed.  A  preparation  of  laudanum,  which  had  served  him 
in  good  stead  for  the  flux,  produced  no  effect  on  the  sweat¬ 
ing  sickness.  With  other  and  other  medicines  he  tried  and 
tried  again.  His  old  head  was  held  very  low.  “  My  poor 
people,”  he  said,  with  a  look  of  shame,  “  I  fear  that  by  rea¬ 
son  of  the  sins  of  me  and  mine  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is 
gone  from  me.” 

Then  the  people  set  up  a  cry  as  bitter  as  that  which  was 
Wrung  from  them  long  before  when  they  were  in  the  grip 
of  their  hunger.  “  The  Sweat  is  on  us,”  they  groaned  ; 
and  the  old  Bishop,  that  lie  might  not  hear  their  voice  of 
reproach,  shut  himself  up  from  them  like  a  servant  whom 
the  Lord  had  forsaken. 

Then  terror  spread  like  a  fire,  but  terror  in  some  minds 
begets  a  kind  of  courage,  and  soon  there  were  those  who 
would  no  longer  join  the  prayer-meetings  in  the  hay-fields 
or  listen  to  the  preaching  on  the  shore.  One  of  these  was 
a  woman  of  middle  life,  an  idle  slattern,  who  had  for  six 
or  seven  years  lived  a  wandering  life.  While  others  prayed 
she  laughed  mockingly  and  protested  that  for  the  Sweat, 
as  well  as  for  every  other  scare  of  life,  there  was  no  better 
preventive  than  to  think  nothing  about  it.  She  carried 
out  her  precept  by  spending  her  days  in  the  inns,  and  her 
nights  on  the  roads,  being  supported  in  her  dissolute  ex¬ 
istence  by  secret  means,  whereof  gossip  spoke  frequently. 
The  terrified  world  about  her,  busy  with  its  loud  prayers, 
took  small  heed  of  her  blasphemies  until  the  numbers  of 
the  slain  had  risen  from  hundreds  to  thousands.  Then  in 
their  frenzy  the  people  were  carried  away  by  superstition, 
and  heard  in  the  woman's  laughter  the  ring  of  the  devil's 
own  ridicule.  Somebody  chanced  to  see  her  early  one 
morning  drawing  water  to  bathe  her  hot  forehead,  and  be¬ 
fore  night  of  that  day  the  evil  word  had  passed  from  mouth 
to  mouth  that  it  was  she  who  had  brought  the  sweating 
sickness  by  poisoning  the  wells. 

Thereupon  half  a  hundred  lusty  fellows,  with  fear  in 
their  wild  eyes,  gathered  in  the  street,  and  set  out  to 
search  for  the  woman.  In  her  accustomed  haunt,  the 
*  Three  Legs  of  Man,”  they  found  her,  and  she  was  heavy 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


33* 

with  drink.  They  hounded  her  out  of  the  inn  into  the 
road,  and  there,  amid  oaths  and  curses,  they  tossed  her 
from  hand  to  hand  until  her  dress  was  in  rags,  her  face  and 
arms  were  bleeding,  and  she  was  screaming  in  the  great 
fright  that  had  sobered  her. 

It  was  Tuesday  night,  and  the  Deemster,  who  had  been 
holding  court  at  Peeltown  late  that  day,  was  riding 
home  in  the  darkness,  when  he  heard  this  tumult  in  the 
road  in  front  of  him.  Putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  came 
upon  the  scene  of  it.  Before  he  had  gathered  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  what  was  proceeding  in  the  dark  road,  the  woman 
had  broken  from  her  tormentors  and  thrown  herself  be¬ 
fore  him,  crawling  on  the  ground  and  gripping  his  foot  in 
the  stirrup. 

“  Deemster,  save  me  !  save  me,  Deemster  !  ”  she  cried  in 
her  frantic  terror. 

The  men  gathered  round  and  told  their  story.  The 
woman  had  poisoned  the  wells,  and  the  bad  water  had 
brought  the  Sweat.  She  was  a  charmer  by  common  re¬ 
port,  and  should  be  driven  out  of  the  island. 

“What  pedler’s  French  is  this?”  said  the  Deemster, 
turning  hotly  on  the  crowd  about  him.  “  Men,  men,  what 
forgotten  age  have  you  stepped  out  of  that  you  come  to 
me  with  such  drivelling,  doddering,  blank  idiocy  ?  ” 

.  But  the  woman,  carried  away  by  her  terror,  and  not 
grasping  the  Deemster’s  meaning,  cried  that  if  he  would 
but  save  her  she  would  confess.  Yes,  she  had  poisoned 
the  wells.  It  was  true  she  was  a  charmer.  She  acknowl¬ 
edged  to  the  evil  eye.  But  save  her,  save  her,  save  her, 
and  she  would  tell  all. 

The  Deemster  listened  with  a  feverish  impatience. 
“The  woman  lies,”  he  said  under  his  breath,  and  then  lift¬ 
ing  his  voice  he  asked  if  anyone  had  a  torch.  “  Who  is 
the  woman  ?”  he  asked  ;  “I  seem  to  know  her  voice.” 

“  D - her,  she’s  a  witch,”  said  one  of  the  men,  thrust¬ 

ing  his  hot  face  forward  in  the  darkness  over  the  woman’s 
cowering  body.  “  Ay,  and  so  was  her  mother  before  her,” 
he  said  again. 

“Tell  me,  woman,  what’s  your  name  ?”  said  the  Deem¬ 
ster,  stoutly  ;  but  his  question  seemed  to  break  down  as  he 
asked  it. 

There  was  a  moment’s  pause. 

“  Mally  Kerruish,”  the  woman  answered  him,  slobbering 
at  his  stirrup  in  the  dark  road  before  him. 

44  Let  her  go,”  said  the  Deemster  in  a  thick  underbreath. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


333 

In  another  moment  he  had  disengaged  his  foot  from  the 
woman’s  grasp  and  was  riding  away. 

That  night  Mally  Kerrnish  died  miserably  of  her  fright 
in  the  little  tool-shed  of  a  cottage  by  the  Cross  Vein,  where 
six  years  before  her  mother  had  dropped  to  a  lingering 
death  alone. 

News  of  her  end  was  taken  straightway  to  Ballamona  by 
one  of  the  many  tongues  of  evil  rumor.  With  Jarvis  Ker- 
ruish,  who  was  in  lace  collar  and  silver-buckled  shoes, 
the  Deemster  had  sat  down  to  supper.  He  rose,  left  his 
sneat  untouched,  and  Jarvis  supped  alone.  Late  that 
night  he  said,  uneasily : 

“  I  intend  to  send  in  my  resignation  to  Castletown — 
burden  of  my  office  as  Deemster  is  too  much  for  my 
strength.” 

“  Good,”  said  Jarvis;  “and  if,  sir,  you  should  ever 
think  of  resigning  the  management  of  your  estate  also, 
you  know  with  how  much  willingness  I  would  undertake 
it,  solely  in  order  that  you  might  spend  your  days  in  rest 
and  comfort.” 

“  I  have  often  thought  of  it  latterly,”  said  the  Deem¬ 
ster.  Half  an  hour  thereafter  he  spent  in  an  uneasy  per¬ 
ambulation  of  the  dining-room  while  Jarvis  picked  his 
teeth  and  cleaned  his  nails. 

“  I  think  I  must  surely  be  growing  old,”  he  said  then, 
and,  drawing  a  long  breath,  he  took  up  his  bedroom 
candle. 

II. 

The  sickness  increased,  the  deaths  were  many  in  the 
houses  about  Ballamona,  and  in  less  than  a  week  after  the 
night  of  Mally  Kerruish’s  death,  Thorkell  Mylrea  a  Deem¬ 
ster  no  longer,  had  made  over  to  Jarvis  Kerruish  all  abso¬ 
lute  interest  in  his  estates.  “  I  shall  spend  my  last  days 
in  the  cause  of  religion,”  he  said.  He  had  paid  up  his 
tithe  in  pound-notes — five  years’  tithe  in  arrears,  with  in¬ 
terest  added  at  the  rate  of  six  per  cent.  Blankets  he  had 
ordered  for  the  poor  of  his  own  parish,  a  double  blanket 
for  each  family,  with  cloaks  for  some  of  the  old  women. 

This  done,  he  relinquished  his  worldly  possessions,  and 
shut  himself  from  the  sickness  in  a  back  room  of  Balla¬ 
mona,  admitting  none,  and  never  stirring  abroad  except 
to  go  to  church. 

The  Bishop  had  newly  opened  the  chapel  at  Bishop’s 
Court  for  daily  prayers/ and  of  all  constant  worshippers 


334 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


there  Thorkell  was  now  the  most  constant  Every  morn* 
ing  his  little  shrivelled  figure  knelt  at  the  form  before  the 
Communion,  and  from  his  blanched  lips  the  prayers  were 
mumbled  audibly.  Much  he  sought  the  Bishop’s  society, 
and  in  every  foolish  trifle  he  tried  to  imitate  his  brother. 
A  new  canon  of  the  Church  had  lately  ordered  that  every 
Bishop  should  wear  an  episcopal  wig,  and  over  his  flow¬ 
ing  white  hair  the  Bishop  of  Man  had  perforce  to  put  the 
grotesque  head-covering.  Seeing  this,  Thorkell  sent  to 
England  for  a  periwig,  and  perched  the  powdered  curls 
on  his  own  bald  crown. 

The  sickness  was  at  its  worst,  the  terror  was  at  its 
height,  and  men  were  flying  from  their  sick  families  to 
caves  in  the  mountains,  when  one  day  the  Bishop  an¬ 
nounced  in  church  that  across  in  Ireland,  as  he  had  heard, 
there  was  a  good  man  who  had  been  blessed  under  God 
with  miraculous  powers  of  curing  this  awful  malady. 

“  Send  for  him  !  send  for  him  !  ”  the  people  shouted  with 
one  voice,  little  heeding  the  place  they  sat  in. 

“  But,”  said  the  Bishop,  with  a  failing  voice,  “  the  good 
man  is  a  Roman  Catholic — indeed,  a  Romish  priest.” 

At  that  word  a  groan  came  from  the  people,  for  they 
were  Protestants  of  Protestants. 

“  Let  us  not  think  that  no  good  can  come  out  of  Naza¬ 
reth,”  the  Bishop  continued.  “  And  who  shall  say,  though 
we  love  the  Papacy  not  at  all,  but  that  holy  men  adhere 
to  it?” 

There  was  a  murmur  of  disapproval. 

“  My  good  people,”  the  Bishop  went  on,  falteringly,  41  we 
are  in  God’s  hands,  and  his  anger  burns  among  us.” 

The  people  broke  up  abruptly,  and  talking  of  what  the 
Bishop  had  said,  they  shook  their  heads.  But  their  terror 
continued,  and  before  its  awful  power  their  qualms  of  faith 
went  down  as  before  a  flood.  Then  they  cried,  “  Send  for 
the  priest !  ”  and  the  Bishop  sent  for  him. 

Seven  weary  days  passed,  and  at  length  with  a  brighten¬ 
ing  countenance  the  Bishop  announced  that  the  priest  had 
answered  that  he  would  come.  Other  three  days  went  by, 
and  the  news  passed  from  north  to  south  that  in  the  brig 
Bridget  of  Cork,  bound  for  Whitehaven,  with  liberty  to 
call  at  Peeltown,  the  Romish  priest,  Father  Dalby,  had 
sailed  for  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Then  day  after  day  the  men  went  up  to  the  hill-tops  to 
catch  sight  of  the  sail  of  an  Irish  brig.  At  last  they  sighted 
one  from  the  Mull  Hills,  and  she  was  five  leagues  south  of 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


335 


the  Calf.  But  the  wind  was  high,  and  the  brig  labored 
hard  in  a  heavy  sea.  Four  hours  the  people  watched  her, 
and  saw  her  bearing  down  into  the  most  dangerous  cur¬ 
rents  about  their  coast.  Night  closed  in,  and  the  wind 
rose  to  the  strength  of  a  gale.  Next  morning  at  early 
dawn  the  people  climbed  the  headlands  again,  but  no  brig 
could  they  now  see,  and  none  had  yet  made  their  ports. 

“  She  must  be  gone  down,"  they  told  themselves,  and  so 
saying  they  went  home  with  heavy  hearts. 

But  two  days  afterward  there  went  through  the  island  a 
thrilling  cry,  “  He  is  here  ! — he  has  come  ! — the  priest !  " 
And  at  that  word  a  wave  of  rosy  health  swept  over  a  thou¬ 
sand  haggard  faces. 

III. 

In  the  dark  sleeping-room  of  a  little  ivy-covered  cottage 
that  stood  end-on  to  the  high  road  through  Michael  a  blind 
woman  lay  dying  of  the  sickness.  It  was  old  Kerry  ;  and 
on  a  three-legged  stool  before  her  bed  her  husband  Hom- 
my  sat.  Pitiful  enough  was  Hommy’s  poor  ugly  face.  His 
thick  lubber  lips  were  drawm  heavily  downward,  and  un¬ 
der  his  besom  brows  his  little  eyes  were  red  and  his  eye¬ 
lids  swollen.  In  his  hands  he  held  a  shovel,  and  he  was 
using  it  as  a  fan  to  puff  air  into  Kerry’s  face. 

“  It’s  all  as  one,  man,’’  the  sick  woman  moaned.  “  Ye’re 
only  keeping  the  breath  in  me.  I’m  bound  to  lave  ye." 

And  thereupon  Hommy  groaned  lustily  and  redoubled 
his  efforts  with  the  shovel.  There  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  a  lady  entered.  It  was  Mona,  pale  of  face,  but 
very  beautiful  in  her  pallor,  and  with  an  air  of  restful  sad¬ 
ness. 

“  And  how  are  you  now,  dear  Kerry  ?"  she  asked,  lean¬ 
ing  over  the  bed. 

“ Middling  badly,  mam,"  Kerry  answered  feebly.  “I’ll 
be  took,  sarten  sure,  as  the  saying  is." 

“  Don’t  lose  heart,  Kerry.  Have  you  not  heard  that  the 
priest  is  coming  ?  " 

“  Chut,  mam  !  I’ll  be  gone,  plaze  God,  where  none  of 
the  like  will  follow  me." 

“  Hush,  Kerry !  He  was  in  Patrick  yesterday  ;  he  will 
be  in  German  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  he  will  be  here 
in  Michael.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  is  doing  wonders  with 
the  sick." 

Kerry  turned  face  to  the  wall,  and  Hommy  talked  with 


53* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


Mona.  What  was  to  become  of  him  when  Kerry  was 
gone  ?  Who  would  be  left  to  give  him  a  bit  of  a  tidy  fu¬ 
neral  ?  The  Dempster  ?  Bad  cess  to  the  like  of  him. 
What  could  be  expected  from  a  master  who  had  turned 
his  own  daughter  out  of  doors  ? 

“  I  am  better  where  I  am,”  Mona  whispered,  and  that 
was  her  sole  answer  to  the  deaf  man’s  too  audible  ques¬ 
tions.  And  Hommy,  after  a  pause,  assented  to  the  state¬ 
ment  with  his  familiar  comment,  “  The  Bishop’s  a  rael 
ould  archangel,  so  he  is.” 

Thereupon  Kerry  turned  her  gaze  from  the  wall  and 
said,  “  Didn’t  I  tell  ye,  mam,  that  he  wasn’t  dead?” 

“  Who  ?  ” 

“Why — him — him  that  we  mayn’t  name — him." 

“  Hush,  dear  Kerry,  he  died  long  ago.” 

“  I  tell  ye,  mam,  he’s  a  living  man,  and  coming  back — 1 
know  it — he’s  coming  back  immadient — I  saw  him.” 

“  Drop  it,  woman,  it’s  drames,”  said  Hommy. 

“I  saw  him  last  night  as  plain  as  plain — wearing  a  long 
gray  sack  and  curranes  on  his  feet,  and  a  queer  sort  of 
hat.” 

“It  must  have  been  the  priest  that  you  saw  in  your 
dream,  dear  Kerry.” 

The  sick  woman  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and  an¬ 
swered  eagerly,  “  I  tell  you  no,  mam,  but  him — him" 

“Lie  still,  Kerry;  you  will  be  worse  if  you  uncover 
yourself  to  the  cool  air.” 

There  was  a  aaoment’s  quiet,  and  then  the  blind  woman 
said  finally,  “I’m  going  where  I’ll  have  my  eyes  same  as 
another  body.” 

At  that  Hommy’s  rugged  face  broadened  to  a  look  of 
gruesome  sorrow,  and  he  renewed  his  exertions  with  the 
shovel. 

.V. 

At  seven  o’clock  that  day  the  darkness  had  closed  in. 
A  bright  turf  fire  burned  in  a  room  in  Bishop’s  Court,  and 
the  Bishop  sat  before  it  with  his  slippered  feet  on  a  sheep¬ 
skin  rug.  His  face  was  mellower  than  of  old,  and  showed 
less  of  strength  and  more  of  sadness.  Mona  stood  at  a 
tea-table  by  his  side,  cutting  slices  of  bread  and  butter. 

A  white  face,  with  eyes  of  fear,  looked  in  at  the  dark 
window.  It  was  Davy  Fayle.  He  was  but  little  older  to 
look  upon  for  the  seven  years  that  had  gone  heavily  over 
Jais  troubled  head.  His  simple  look  was  as  vacant  and  hid 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


39? 


lagging  lip  hung  as  low;  but  his  sluggish  intellect  had 
that  night  become  suddenly  charged  with  a  ready  man's 
swiftness. 

Mona  went  to  the  door.  “  Come  in,"  she  said  ;  but  Davy 
would  not  come.  He  must  speak  with  her  outside,  and 
she  went  out  to  him. 

He  was  trembling  visibly. 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  she  said. 

“  Mistress  Mona,"  said  Davy,  in  a  voice  of  great  emotion, 
u  it’s  as  true  as  the  living  God." 

“  What  ?"  she  said. 

“  He's  alive — ould  Kerry  said  true — he’s  alive,  and  com¬ 
ing  back." 

Mona  glanced  into  his  face  by  the  dull  light  that  came 
through  the  window.  His  eyes,  usually  dull  and  vacant, 
were  aflame  with  a  strange  fire.  She  laid  one  hand  on  the 
door-jamb,  and  said,  catching  her  breath,  “  Davy,  remem¬ 
ber  what  the  men  said  long  ago — that  they  saw  him  lying 
in  the  snow." 

“  He's  alive,  I'm  telling  you— I've  seen  him  with  my  own 
eyes." 

“  Where?" 

“  I  went  down  to  Patrick  this  morning  to  meet  the  priest 
coming  up — but  it’s  no  priest  at  all- — it's — it's — it's  him'' 

Again  Mona  drew  her  breath  audibly. 

“  Think  what  you  are  saying,  Davy.  If  it  should  not  be 
true  !  Oh,  if  you  should  be  mistaken  !  " 

“  It's  Bible  truth,  Mistress  Mona — I’ll  go  bail  on  it  afore 
tJod  A’mighty." 

“The  priest,  you  say  ?" 

“Aw,  lave  it  to  me  to  know  Mastna — I  mean'— him” 

“  I  must  go  in,  Davy.  Good-night  to  you,  and  thank 

rj ou - Good-night,  and - "  the  plaintive  tenderness  oi 

1  her  voice  broke  down  to  a  sob.  “  Oh,  what  can  it  all 
mean  ?  "  she  exclaimed  more  vehemently. 

Davy  turned  away.  The  low  moan  of  the  sea  came  up 
through  the  dark  night. 

V. 

It  happened  that  after  service  the  next  morning  the 
Bishop  and  Thorkell  walked  out  of  the  chapel  side  by 
side. 

“We  are  old  men  now,  Gilcrist,"  said  Thorkell,  “and 
should  be  good  friends  together.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


23s 

“That  is  so,”  the  Bishop  answered. 

“  We’ve  both  lost  a  son,  and  can  feel  for  each  other.* 

The  Bishop  made  no  reply. 

“We’re  childless  men,  in  fact.” 

“There’s  Mona,  God  bless  her!”  the  Bishop  said,  very 
softly. 

“True,  true,”  said  Thorkell,  and  there  was  silence  for 
a  moment. 

“It  was  partly  her  fault  when  she  left  me — partly,  I 
say; — don’t  you  think  so,  Gilcrist ? ”  said  Thorkell,  ner¬ 
vously. 

“  She’s  a  dear,  sweet  soul,”  the  Bishop  said, 

“  It’s  true.” 

They  stepped  on  a  few  paces,  and  passed  by  the  spot 
whereon  the  two  fishermen  laid  down  their  dread  burden 
from  the  Mooragh  seven  years  before.  Then  Thorkell 
spoke  again  and  in  a  feverish  voice. 

“D’ye  know,  Gilcrist,  I  sometimes  awake  in  the  night 
crying  ‘  Ewan  !  Ewan  !  ’  ” 

The  Bishop  did  not  answer,  and  Thorkell,  in  another 
tone,  asked  when  the  Irish  priest  was  to  reach  Michael. 

“  He  may  be  here  to-morrow,”  the  Bishop  said. 

Thorkell  shuddered. 

“  It  must  be  that  God  is  revenging  himself  upon  us 
with  this  fearful  scourge.” 

“  It  dishonors  God  to  say  so,”  the  Bishop  replied.  “  He 
is  calling  upon  us  to  repent.” 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  Thorkell  asked  what 
a  man  should  do  to  set  things  right  in  this  world  if  per¬ 
chance  lie  had  taken  a  little  more  in  usury  than  was  fair 
and  honest.” 

“Give  back  whatever  was  more  than  justice,”  said  the 
Bishop  promptly. 

“  But  that  is  often  impossible,  Gilcrist.” 

“  If  he  has  robbed  the  widow,  and  she  is  dead,  let  hin» 
repay  the  fatherless.” 

“  It  is  impossible — I  tell  you,  Gilcrist,  it  is  impossible— 
impossible.” 

As  they  were  entering  the  house  Thorkell  asked  if 
there  was  truth  in  the  rumor  that  the  wells  had  been 
charmed. 

“  To  believe  such  stories  is  to  be  drawn  off  from  a  trust 
in  God  and  a  dependence  on  his  good  providence,”  said 
the  Bishop. 

“  But  I  must  say,  brother,  that  strange  things  are  known 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


m 


|o  happen.  Now  I  myself  have  witnessed  extraordinary 
fulfilments.*' 

p  “Superstition  is  a  forsaking  of  God,  whom  we  have 
most  need  to  fly  to  in  trouble  and  distress,"  the  Bishop 
answered. 

“  True— very  true — I  loathe  it;  but  still  it's  a  sort  of 
religion,  isn't  it,  Gilcrist?”  #  M 

“  So  the  wise  man  says — as  the  ape  is  a  sort  of  a  man. 

VI. 

Three  days  later  the  word  went  round  that  he  who  had 
been  looked  for  was  come  to  Michael,  and  many  went  out 
to  meet  him.  He  was  a  stalwart  man,  straight  and  tall, 
bony  and  muscular.  His  dress  was  poverty’s  own  livery  : 
a  gray  shapeless  sack-coat,  reaching  below  his  knees,  cur- 
ranes  on  his  feet  of  untanned  skin  with  open  clocks,  and 
a  cap  of  cloth,  half  helmet  and  half  hood,  drawn  closely 
down  over  his  head.  His  cheeks  were  shaven  and  deeply 
bronzed.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  of  a  strange  com¬ 
mingling  of  strength  and  tenderness.  His  gestures  were 
few,  slow,  and  gentle.  His  measured  step  was  a  rhythmic 
stride — the  stride  of  a  man  who  has  learned  in  the  long 
endurance  of  solitude  to  walk  alone  in  the  ways  of  the 
world.  He  spoke  little,  and  scarcely  answered  the  ques¬ 
tions  which  were  put  to  him.  “  Aw,  but  I  seem  to  have 
seen  the  good  man  in  my  drames,”  said  one  ;  and  some 
said  “  Ay  ’’  to  that,  and  some  laughed  at  it. 

Within  six  hours  of  his  coming  he  had  set  the  whole 
parish  to  work.  Half  of  the  men  he  sent  up  into  the 
mountains  to  cut  gorse  and  drag  it  down  to  the  Curraghs 
in  piles  of  ten  feet  high,  tied  about  with  long  sheep  lankets 
of  twisted  straw.  The  other  half  he  set  to  dig  trenches  in 
the  marshy  places.  He  made  the  women  to  kindle  a  turf 
fire  in  every  room  with  a  chimney-flue,  and  when  night 
came  he  had  great  fires  of  gorse,  peat,  withered  vegetation, 
and  dried  sea-wrack  built  on  the  open  spaces  about  the 
houses  in  which  the  sickness  had  broken  out.  He  seemed 
neither  to  rest  nor  eat.  From  sick  house  to  sick  house, 
from  trench  to  trench,  and  fire  to  fire,  he  moved  on  with 
his  strong  step.  And  behind  him,  at  all  times,  having  never 
a  word  from  him  and  never  a  look,  but  trudging  along  at 
his  heels  like  a  dog,  was  the  man-lad,  Davy  Fayle. 

Many  of  the  affrighted  people  who  had  taken  refuge  in 
the  mountains  returned  to  their  homes  at  his  coming,  but 


340 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


others,  husbands  and  fathers  chiefly,  remained  on  the  hilfy  j 
leaving  their  wives  and  families  to  fend  for  themselves. 
Seeing  this,  he  went  up  and  found  some  of  them  in  their 
hiding-places,  and,  shaming  them  out  of  their  cowardice, 
brought  them  back  behind  him,  more  docile  than  sheep 
behind  a  shepherd.  When  the  ex-town-watch,  Billy-by- 
Nite,  next  appeared  on  the  Curraghs  in  the  round  of  his 
prophetic  itineration,  the  strange  man  said  not  a  word,  but 
he  cut  short  the  vehement  jeremiad  by  taking  the  Quaker 
prophet  by  legs  and  neck,  and  throwing  him  headlong 
into  one  of  the  drain-troughs  newly  dug  in  the  dampest 
places. 

But  the  strength  of  this  silent  man  was  no  more  con¬ 
spicuous  than  his  tenderness.  When  in  the  frenzy  of  their 
fever  the  sufferers  would  cast  off  their  clothes,  and  try  to 
rise  from  their  beds  and  rush  into  the  cooler  air  from  the 
heat  by  which  he  had  surrounded  them,  his  big  horny 
hands  would  restrain  them  with  a  great  gentleness. 

Before  he  had  been  five  days  in  Michael  and  on  the  Cur¬ 
raghs  the  sickness  began  to  abate.  The  deaths  were  fewer, 
and  some  of  the  sick  rose  from  their  beds.  Then  the  peo¬ 
ple  plied  him  with  many  questions,  and  would  have  over¬ 
whelmed  him  with  their  rude  gratitude.  To  their  ques¬ 
tions  he  gave  few  answers,  and  when  they  thanked  him  he 
turned  and  left  them. 

They  said  that  their  Bishop,  who  was  grown  feeble,  the 
good  ould  angel,  thought  it  strange  that  he  had  not  yet 
visited  him.  To  this  he  answered  briefly  that  before  leav¬ 
ing  the  parish  he  would  go  to  Bishop’s  Court. 

They  told  him  that  Mistress  Mona,  daughter  of  the 
Dempster  that  was,  bad  cess  to  him,  had  been  seeking 
him  high  and  low.  At  this  his  lip  trembled,  and  he  bent 
his  head. 

“The  good  man’s  face  plagues  me  mortal,”  said  old 
Billy-the-Gawk,  “Whiles  I  know  it,  and  otherwhiles  I 
don’t.” 

VII. 

Only  another  day  did  the  stranger  remain  in  Michael, 
but  the  brief  time  was  full  of  strange  events.  The  night 
closed  in  before  seven  o’clock.  It  was  then  very  dark 
across  the  mountains,  and  the  sea  lay  black  beyond  the 
cliffs,  but  the  Curraghs  were  dotted  over  with  the  many 
fires  which  had  been  kindled  about  the  infected  houses. 

Within  one  of  these  houses,  the  home  of  Jabez  Gawn^ 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


341 


the  stranger  stood  beside  the  bed  of  a  sick  woman,  the 
tailor's  wife.  Behind  him  there  were  anxious  faces.  Davy 
Fayle,  always  near  him,  leaned  against  the  door-jamb  by 
the  porch. 

And  while  the  stranger  wrapped  the  sweltering  sufferer 
in  hot  blankets,  other  sufferers  sent  to  him  to  pray  of  him 
to  come  to  them.  First  there  came  an  old  man  to  tell  of 
his  grandchild,  who  had  been  smitten  down  that  day,  and 
she  was  the  last  of  his  kin  whom  the  Sweat  had  left  alive. 
Then  a  woman,  to  say  that  her  husband,  who  had  started 
again  with  the  boats  but  yesterday,  had  been  brought  home 
to  her  that  night  with  the  sickness.  He  listened  to  all 
who  came,  and  answered  quietly,  “I  will  go.” 

At  length  a  young  man  ran  in  and  said,  “The  Demp¬ 
ster’s  down.  He’s  shouting  for  you,  sir.  He  sent  me  hot¬ 
foot  to  fetch  you.” 

The  stranger  listened  as  before,  and  seemed  to  think 
rapidly  for  a  moment,  for  his  under  lip  trembled,  and  was 
drawn  painfully  inward.  Then  he  answered  as  briefly  as 
ever,  and  with  as  calm  a  voice,  “  I  will  go.” 

The  man  ran  back  with  his  answer,  but  presently  re¬ 
turned,  saying,  with  panting  breath,  “He’s  rambling,  sir; 
raving  mad,  sir  ;  and  shouting  that  he  must  be  coming  af¬ 
ter  you  if  you’re  not  for  coming  to  him.” 

“  We  will  go  together,”  the  stranger  said,  and  they  went 
out  immediately,  Davy  Fayle  followed  them  at  a  few 
paces. 

VIII.  ^ 

Through  the  darkness  of  that  night  a  woman,  young 
and  beautiful,  in  cloak  and  hood  like  a  nun’s,  walked  from 
house  to  house  of  the  Curraghs,  where  the  fires  showed 
that  the  sickness  was  still  raging.  It  was  Mona.  These 
three  days  past  she  had  gone  hither  and  thither,  partly  to 
tend  the  sick  people,  partly  in  hope  of  meeting  the  strange 
man  who  had  come  to  cure  them.  Again  and  again  she 
had  missed  him,  being  sometimes  only  a  few  minutes  be¬ 
fore  or  after  him. 

Still  she  passed  on  from  house  to  house,  looking  for  him 
as  she  went  in  at  every  fresh  door,  yet  half  dreading  the 
chance  that  might  bring  them  face  to  face. 

She  entered  the  house  where  he  had  received  her 
father’s  message  almost  on  the  instant  when  he  left  it 
The  three  men  had  gone  by  her  in  the  darkness. 

Jabez,  the  tailor,  who  sat  whimpering  in  the  ingle,  told 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


34'; 

her  that  the  priest  had  that  moment  gone  off  to  Ball* 
mona,  where  the  Dempster  that  was — hadn’t  she  heard 
the  newses  ? — was  new  down  with  the  Sweat. 

Her  delicate  face  whitened  at  that,  and  after  a  pause 
she  turned  to  follow.  But  going  back  to  the  hearth,  she 
asked  if  the  stranger  had  been  told  that  the  Bishop  wanted 
to  see  him.  Jabez  told  her  yes,  and  that  he  had  said  he 
would  go  up  to  Bishop’s  Court  before  leaving  the  parish. 

Then  another  question  trembled  on  her  tongue,  but  she 
could  not  utter  it.  At  last  she  asked  what  manner  of  man 
the  stranger  was  to  look  upon. 

“  Aw,  big  and  sthraight  and  tall,”  said  Jabez. 

And  Billy-the-Gawk,  who  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  ingle,  being  kin  to  Jabez’s  sick  wife,  said,  “  Ay,  and 
quiet  like,  and  solemn  extraordinary.” 

“  A  wonderful  man,  wrmderful,  wonderful,”  said  Jabez, 
still  whimpering.  “And  wherever  he  comes  the  Sweat 
goes  down  before  him  with  a  flood.” 

“As  I  say,’’  said  Billy-the-Gawk,  “the  good  man’s  face 
plagues  me  mortal.  I  can’t  bethink  me  where  I've  seen 
the  like  of  it  afore.” 

Mona’s  lips  quivered  at  that  word,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
about  to  speak  ;  but  she  said  nothing. 

“And  the  strong  he  is!”  said  Jabez:  “I  never  knew 
but  one  man  in  the  island  with  half  the  strength  of  arm  as 
him.” 

Mona’s  pale  face  twitched  visibly,  and  she  listened  as 
with  every  faculty. 

“  Who  d’ye  mane  ?  ”  asked  Billy-the-Gawk. 

At  that  question  there  was  a  moment's  silence  oetween 
the  men.  Then  each  drew  a  long  breath,  dislodged  a 
heavy  burden  from  his  throat,  glanced  significantly  up  at 
Mona,  and  looked  into  the  other’s  face. 

“AT/w,”  said  Jabez,  in  a  faint  under-breath,  speaking 
behind  his  hand. 

“  Him  ?  ”■ 

Billy-the-Gawk  straightened  his  crooked  back,  opened 
wide  his  rheumy  eyes,  pursed  up  his  wizened  cheeks,  and 
emitted  a  low,  long  whistle. 

“  Lord  A’mighty !  ” 

For  an  instant  Jabez  looked  steadily  into  the  old  mendi¬ 
cant’s  face,  and  then  drew  himself  up  in  his  seat — 

“  Lord  a-massy  !  ” 

Mona’s  heart  leapt  to  her  mouth.  She  was  almost  be¬ 
side  herself  with  suspense,  and  felt  an  impulse  to  scream# 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


340 


Within  a  week  after  old  Thorkell  had  conversed  with 
the  Bishop  about  the  rumor  that  the  wells  had  been 
charmed,  his  terror  of  the  sickness  had  grown  nigh  to 
madness.  He  went  to  church  no  longer,  but  shut  himself 
up  in  his  house.  Night  and  day  his  restless  footstep  could 
be  heard  to  pass  from  room  to  room,  and  floor  to  floor. 
He  ate  little,  and  such  was  his  dread  of  the  water  from  his 
well  that  for  three  days  together  he  drank  nothing.  At 
length,  burning  from  thirst,  he  went  up  the  Dhoon  Glen 
and  drank  at  a  pool,  going  down  on  hands  and  knees  to  lap 
the  water  like  a  dog.  Always  he  seemed  to  be  mumbling 
prayers,  and  when  the  bell  of  the  church  rang,  no  matter 
for  what  occasion,  he  dropped  to  his  knees  and  prayed 
audibly.  He  forbade  the  servants  of  the  house  to  bring 
him  news  of  deaths,  but  waited  and  watched  and  listened 
at  open  doors  for  their  conversation  among  themselves. 
At  night  he  went  to  the  front  windows  to  look  at  the  fires 
that  were  kindled  about  the  infected  houses  on  the  Cur- 
raghs.  He  never  failed  to  turn  from  that  sight  with  bitter 
words.  Such  work  was  but  the  devil’s  play  ;  it  was  mak¬ 
ing  a  mock  at  God,  who  had  sent  the  sickness  to  revenge 
Himself  on  the  island’s  guilty  people.  Thorkell  told  Jar¬ 
vis  Kerruish  as  much  time  after  time.  Jarvis  answered 
contemptuously,  and  Thorkell  retorted  angrily.  At  length 
they  got  to  high  words,  and  Jarvis  flung  away. 

One  morning  Thorkell  called  for  Hommy-beg.  They 
told  him  that  Hominy  had  been  nursing  his  wife.  The 
blind  woman  was  now  dead,  and  Hommy  was  burying  her. 
At  this  Thorkell’s  terror  was  appalling  to  look  upon.  All 
night  long  he  had  been  telling  himself  that  he  despised  the 
belief  in  second  sight,  but  that  he  would  see  if  Kerry  pre¬ 
tended  to  know  whether  he  himself  was  to  outlive  the 
scourge.  No  matter,  the  woman  was  dead.  So  much  the 
better ! 

Later  the  same  day,  Thorkell  remembered  that  some¬ 
where  on  the  mountains  there  lived  an  old  farmer  who  was 
a  seer  and  bard.  He  would  go  to  see  the  old  charlatan. 
Yes,  he  would  amuse  himself  with  the  superstition  that 
aped  religion.  Thorkell  set  out,  and  found  the  bard’s 
lonely  house  far  up  above  the  Sherragh  Vane.  In  a  cor¬ 
ner  of  the  big  fireplace  the  old  man  sat,  with  a  black  shawi 
bound  about  his  head  and  tied  under  his  chin.  He  waa 


344 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


past  eighty  years  of  age,  and  his  face  was  as  oicT  a  rad§ 
as  Thorkell  had  ever  looked  upon.  On  his  knee  a  young 
child  was  sitting,  and  two  or  three  small  boys  were  playing 
about  his  feet.  A  brisk  middle-aged  woman  was  stirring 
the  peats  and  settling  the  kettle  on  the  chimney-hook. 
She  was  the  old  man’s  wife,  and  the  young  brood  were  the 
old  man’s  children. 

Thorkell  began  to  talk  of  carvals,  and  said  ne  had  come 
to  hear  some  of  them.  The  old  bard’s  eyes  brightened. 
He  had  written  a  carol  about  the  sickness.  From  the 
“lath”  he  took  a  parchment  pan,  full  of  papers  that  were 
worn,  thumb-marked,  and  greasy.  From  one  of  these 
papers  he  began  to  read,  and  Thorkell  tried  to  listen. 
The  poem  was  an  account  of  a  dream.  The  dreamer  had 
dreamt  that  he  had  gone  into  a  church.  There  was  a  con¬ 
gregation  gathered,  and  a  preacher  was  in  the  pulpit. 
But  when  the  preacher  prayed  the  dreamer  heard  nothing 
of  God.  At  length  he  discovered  that  it  was  a  congrega¬ 
tion  of  the  dead  in  the  region  of  the  damned.  They  had  all 
died  of  the  Sweat.  Every  man  of  them  had  been  warned 
by  wise  men  and  women  in  this  world.  The  congregation 
sang  a  joyless  psalm,  and  when  their  service  was  done  they 
began  to  break  up.  Then  the  dreamer  recognized  some 
whom  he  had  known  in  the  flesh.  Among  them  was  one 
who  had  killed  his  own  son,  and  he  was  afflicted  with  a 
burning  thirst.  To  this  unhappy  man  the  dreamer  offered 
a  basin  of  milk-and-water,  but  the  damned  soul  could  not 
get  the  basin  to  his  parched  lips,  struggle  as  he  might  to 
lift  it  in  his  stiff  arms. 

At  first  Thorkell  listened  with  the  restless  mind  of  a  man 
who  had  come  on  better  business,  and  then  with  a  feverish  ! 
interest.  The  sky  had  darkened  since  he  entered  the 
house,  and  while  the  old  bard  chanted  in  his  sing-song 
voice,  and  the  children  made  their  clatter  around  his  feet, 
a  storm  of  heavy  rain  pelted  against  the  window-pane. 

The  ballad  ended  in  the  grim  doggerel  of  a  harrowing 
appeal  to  the  sinner  to  shun  his  evil  courses  : 

O  sinner,  see  your  dangerous  state, 

And  think  of  hell  ere  ’  tis  too  late  ; 

When  worldly  cares  would  drown  each  thought# 

Pray  call  to  mind  that  hell  is  hot. 

Still  to  increase  your  godly  fears 
Let  this  be  sounding  in  your  ears, 

Still  bear  in  mind  that  hell  is  hot^ 

Remember,  and  forget  it  nob 


THE  DEEMSTER . 


345 


Thus,  with  a  swinging  motion  of  the  body,  the  old  bard 

the  mountains  chanted  this  rude  song  on  the  dangers  of 
damnation.  Thorkell  leapt  up  from,  the  settle  and  sput¬ 
tered  out  an  expression  of  contempt.  What  madness  was 
this?  If  he  had  his  way  he  would  clap  all  superstitious 
people  into  the  Castle. 

The  next  morning,  when  sitting  down  to  breakfast, 
Thorkell  told  Jarvis  Kerruish  that  he  had  three  nights  run¬ 
ning  dreamt  the  same  dream,  and  it  was  a  terrible  one. 
Jarvis  laughed  in  his  face,  and  said  he  was  a  foolish  old 
man.  Thorkell  answered  with  heat,  and  they  parted  on 
the  instant,  neithertouching  food.  Toward  noon  Thorkell 
imagined  he  felt  feverish,  and  asked  for  Jarvis  Kerruisn  ; 
but  Jarvis  was  at  his  toilet  and  would  not  be  disturbed. 
At  .five  o’clock  the  same  day  Thorkell  was  sweating  from 
every  pore,  and  crying  lustily  that  he  had  taken  the  sick¬ 
ness.  Toward  seven  he  ordered  the  servant— a  young 
man  named  Juan  Caine,  who  had  come  to  fill  Hommy’s 
place— to  go  in  search  of  the  Romish  priest,  Father 
Dalby. 

When  the  stranger  came,  the  young  man  opened  the 
door  to  him,  and  whispered  that  the  old  master’s  wits  were 
|  gone.  “  He’s  not  been  wise  these  two  hours,”  the  young 
man  said,  and  then  led  the  way  to  Thorkell’s  bedroom. 
He  missed  the  corridor,  and  the  stranger  pointed  to  the 
proper  door. 

Thorkell  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed.  His  clothes  had  not 
been  taken  off,  but  his  coat — a  blue  coat,  laced — and  also 
his  long  yellow  vest  were  unbuttoned.  His  wig  was 
perched  on  the  top  of  a  high-backed  chair,  and  over  his 
bald  head  hung  a  torn  piece  of  red  flannel.  His  long 
hairy  hands,  with  the  prominent  blue,  veins,  crawled  over 
the  counterpane.  His  eyes  were  open  very  wide.  When 
he  saw  the  stranger  he  was  for  getting  out  of  bed. 

“I  am  not  ill,”  he  said;  “it’s  folly  to  think  that  I’ve 
!  taken  the  sickness.  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  something 
that  you  should  know.” 

Then  he  called  to  the  young  man  to  bring  him  water. 
“Juan,  water!”  he  cried  ;  “Juan,  I  say,  more  water.” 

He  turned  to  the  stranger.  “  It’s  true  I’m  always  athirst, 
but  is  that  any  proof  that  I  have  taken  the  sickness  ? 
Juan,  be  quick — water  !” 

The  young  man  brought  a  pewter  pot  of  cold  water,  and 
Thorkell  clutched  at  it,  but  as  he  was  stretching  his  neck 

to  drink,  his  hot  lips  working  visibly,  and  hU  whit®  tongue 


34$ 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


protruding,  he  drew  suddenly  back.  “  Is  it  from  the  well  tn 
he  asked. 

The  stranger  took  the  pewter  out  of  his  hands,  unlock* 
ing  his  stiff  fingers  with  his  own  great  bony  ones.  “Make 
the  water  hot,”  he  said  to  the  servant. 

Thorkell  fell  back  to  his  pillow,  and  the  rag  of  red 
blanket  dropped  from  his  bald  crown.  Then  he  lifted  him* 
self  on  one  elbow  and  began  again  to  talk  of  the  sickness. 
“You  have  made  a  mistake,”  he  said.  “  It  is  not  to  be  cured. 
It  is  God’s  revenge  on  the  people  of  this  sinful  island. 
Shall  I  tell  you  for  what  offence  ?  For  superstition.  Su¬ 
perstition  is  the  ape  of  religion.  It  is  the  reproach  of  God. 
Juan!  Juan,  I  say,  help  me  off  with  this  coat.  And  these 
bed-clothes  also.  Why  are  there  so  many?  It’s  true,  sir 
— Father,  is  it? — it’s  true,  Father,  I’m  hot,  but  what  of 
that  ?  Water  !  Juan,  more  water — Glen  water,  Juan  !  ” 

The  stranger  pushed  Thorkell  gently  back,  and  covered 
him  closely  from  the  air. 

“As  I  say,  it  is  superstition,  sir,”  said  Thorkell  again, 
“  I  would  have  it  put  down  by  law.  It  is  the  curse  of  this 
island.  What  are  those  twenty-four  Keys  doing  that  they 
don’t  stamp  it  out  ?  And  the  clergy — what  are  they  wrang¬ 
ling  about  now,  that  they  don’t  see  to  it  ?  I’ll  tell  you  how 
it  is,  sir.  It  is  this  way.  A  man  does  something,  and 
some  old  woman  sneezes.  Straightway  he  thinks  himself 
accursed,  and  that  what  is  predicted  must  certainly  come 
about.  And  it  does  come  about.  Why?  Because  the 
man  himself,  with  his  blundering,  doddering  fears,  brings  it 
about.  He  brings  it  about  himself — that’s  how  it  is  !  And 
then  every  old  woman  in  the  island  sneezes  again.” 

Saying  this,  Thorkell  began  to  laugh,  loudly,  frantically, 
atrociously.  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  entered  while  he  was 
running  on  with  his  tirade.  The  stranger  did  not  lift  his 
eyes  to  Jarvis,  but  Jarvis  looked  at  him  attentively. 

When  Thorkell  had  finished  his  hideous  laugh,  he  turned 
to  Jarvis  and  asked  if  superstition  was  not  the  plague  of 
the  island,  and  if  it  ought  not  to  be  put  down  by  law. 
Jarvis  curled  his  lips  for  answer,  but  this  form  of  con* 
tempt  was  lost  on  old  Thorkell’s  dim  eyes. 

“Have  we  not  often  agreed  that  it  is  so?”  said  Thor* 
kell. 

“And  that  you,”  said  Jarvis,  speaking  slowly  and  bitter¬ 
ly,  “  are  the  most  superstitious  man  alive.” 

**What?  what?”  Thorkell  cried. 

The  stranger  lifted  his  face,  and  looked  steadily  into 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


347 


Jarvis’s  eyes.  “You,”  he  said,  calmly,  “have  some  reason 
to  say  so.” 

Jarvis  reddened,  turned  about,  stepped  to  the  door, 
glanced  back  at  the  stranger,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Thorkell  was  now  moaning  on  the  pillow.  “  I  am  all 
alone,”  he  said  ;  and  he  fell  to  a  bout  of  weeping. 

The  stranger  waited  until  the  hysterical  fit  was  over, 
and  then  said,  “Where  is  your  daughter  ?” 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Thorkell,  dropping  his  red  eyes. 

“  Send  for  her.” 

“  I  will.  Juan,  go  to  Bishop’s  Court.  Juan,  I  say,  run  fast 
and  fetch  Mistress  Mona.  Tell  her  that  her  father  is  ill.” 

As  Thorkell  gave  this  order  Jarvis  Kerruish  returned  to 
the  room. 

“No!”  said  Jarvis,  lifting  his  hand  against  the  young 
man. 

“No?”  cried  Thorkell. 

“  If  this  is  my  house,  I  will  be  master  in  it,”  said  Jarvis. 

“Master!  your  house!  yours!”  Thorkell  cried;  and 
then  he  fell  to  a  fiercer  bout  of  hysterical  curses.  “  Bas¬ 
tard,  I  gave  you  all !  But  for  me  you  would  be  on  the 
roads — ay,  the  dunghill !  ” 

“  This  violence  will  avail  you  nothing,”  said  Jarvis,  with 
hard  constraint.  “Mistress  Mona  shall  not  enter  this 
house.” 

Jarvis  placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  door.  The 
stranger  stepped  up  to  him,  laid  one  powerful  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  drew  him  aside.  “Go  for  Mistress  Mona,”  he 
said  to  the  young  man.  “  Knock  at  the  door  on  your  re¬ 
turn.  I  will  open  it.” 

The  young  man  obeyed  the  stranger.  Jarvis  stood  a 
moment  looking  blankly  into  the  stranger’s  face.  Then 
he  went  out  of  the  room  again. 

Thorkell  was  whimpering  on  the  pillow.  “  It  is  true,” 
he  said,  with  laboring  breath,  “though  I  hate  superstition 
and  loathe  it,  I  was  once  its  victim — once  only.  My  son 
Ewan  was  killed  by  my  brother’s  son,  Dan.  They  loved 
each  other  like  David  and  Jonathan,  but  I  told  Ewan  a  lie, 
and  they  fought,  and  Ewan  was  brought  home  dead.  Yes, 
I  told  a  lie,  but  I  believed  it  then.  I  made  myself  believe 
it.  I  listened  to  some  old  wife’s  balderdash,  and  thought 
it  true.  And  Dan  was  cut  off — that  is  to  say,  banished,  ex¬ 
communicated  ;  worse,  worse.  But  he’s  dead  now.  He 
was  found  dead  in  the  snow.”  Again  Thorkell  tried  to 
laugh,  a  poor  despairing  laugh  that  was  half  a  cry  “  Deadl 


34» 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


They  threatened  me  that  he  would  push  me  from  my  place,  ’ 
And  he  is  dead  before  me  !  So  much  for  divination  !  Bui 
tell  me — you  are  a  priest — tell  me  if  that  sin  will  drag  me  ' 
down  to — to— —  But  then,  remember,  I  believed  it  was 
true — yes,  I - ” 

The  stranger’s  face  twitched,  and  his  breathing  became 
quick. 

“  And  it  was  you  who  led  the  way  to  all  that  followed  ? 99 
he  said,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

“  It  was  ;  it  was - ” 

The  stranger  had  suddenly  reached  over  the  bed  and 
taken  Thorkell  by  the  shoulders.  At  the  next  instant  he  ✓ 
had  relinquished  his  hard  grasp,  and  was  standing  upright 
as  before,  and  with  as  calm  a  face.  And  Thorkell  went  * 
jabbering  on  : 

“These  three  nights  I  have  dreamt  a  fearful  dreanL 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was  ?  Shall  I  ?  I  thought  Dan, 
my  brother’s  son,  arose  out  of  his  grave,  and  came  to  my 
bedside,  and  peered  into  my  face.  Then  I  thought  I 
shrieked  and  died  ;  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  in  the  other  N 
world  was  my  own  son  Ewan,  and  he  peered  into  my  face 
also,  and  told  me  that  I  was  damned  eternally.  But,  tell 
me,  don’t  you  think  it  was  only  a  dream?  Father! 
Father  !  I  say,  tell  me - ” 

Thorkell  was  clambering  up  by  hold  of  the  stranger’s 
coat. 

The  stranger  pushed  him  gently  back. 

“Lie  still  ;  lie  still — you,  too,  have  suffered  much,”  he 
said.  “  Lie  quiet — God  is  merciful.” 

Just  then  Jarvis  Kerruish  entered,  in  wild  excitement. 
“Now  I  know  who  this  man  is,”  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
stranger. 

“Father  Dalby,”  said  Thorkell. 

“  Pshaw  ! — it  is  Dan  Mylrea.” 

Thorkell  lifted  himself  stiffly  on  his  elbow,  and  rigidly 
drew  his  face  closely  up  to  the  stranger’s  face,  and  peered 
into  the  stranger’s  eyes.  Then  he  took  a  convulsive  hold  ■ 
of  the  stranger’s  coat,  shrieked,  and  fell  back  on  to  the 
pillow. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door 
below.  The  stranger  left  the  room.  In  the  hall  a  candle 
was  burning.  He  put  it  out.  Then  he  opened  the  door. 

A  woman  entered.  She  was  alone.  She  passed  him  in 
the  darkness  without  speaking.  He  went  out  of  the  houSQ 
and  pulled  th«  door  after  him. 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


W9 


X. 

An  hour  later  than  this  terrible  interview,  wherein  his 
Identity  (never  hidden  by  any  sorry  masquerade)  was  sud¬ 
denly  revealed,  Daniel  Mylrea,  followed  closely  at  his 
heels  by  Davy  Fayle,  walked  amid  the  fires  of  the  valley 
to  Bishop’s  Court.  He  approached  the  old  house  by  the 
sea-front,  and  went  into  its  grounds  by  a  gate  that  opened 
on  a  footpath  to  the  library  through  a  clump  of  elms. 
Sluggish  as  was  Davy’s  intellect,  he  reflected  that  this 
was  a  path  that  no  stranger  could  know. 

The  sky  of  the  night  had  lightened,  and  here  and  there 
a  star  gleamed  through  the  thinning  branches  overhead. 
In  a  faint  breeze  the  withering  leaves  of  the  dying  sum¬ 
mer  rustled  slightly.  On  the  meadow  before  the  house  a 
silvery  haze  of  night-dew  lay  in  its  silence.  Sometimes 
the  croak  of  a  frog  came  from  the  glen  ;  and  from  the  sea 
beyond  (though  seemingly  from  the  mountains  opposite) 
there  rose  into  the  air  the  rumble  of  the  waves  on  the 
shore. 

•  Daniel  Mylrea  passed  on  with  a  slow,  strong  step,  but 
a  secret  pain  oppressed  him.  He  was  walking  on  the 
ground  that  was  dear  with  a  thousand  memories  of  happy 
childhood.  He  was  going  back  for  some  brief  moments 
that  must  be  painful  and  joyful,  awful  and  delicious,  to 
the  house  which  he  had  looked  to  see  no  more.  Already 
he  was  very  near  to  those  who  were  very  dear  to  him,  and 
to  whom  he,  too — yes,  it  must  be  so — to  whom  he,  too,  in 
spite  of  all,  must  still  be  dear.  “  Father,  father,”  he  whis* 
pered  to  himself.  “And  Mona,  my  Mona,  my  love,  my 
love.”  Only  the  idle  chatter  of  the  sapless  leaves  answered 
to  the  yearning  cry  of  his  broken  spirit. 

He  had  passed  out  of  the  shade  of  the  elms  into  the 
open  green  of  the  meadow  with  the  stars  above  it,  when 
another  voice  came  to  him.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  child 
singing.  Clear  and  sweet,  and  with  a  burden  of  tender¬ 
ness  such  as  a  child’s  voice  rarely  carries,  it  floated 
through  the  quiet  air. 

Daniel  Mylrea  passed  on  until  he  came  by  the  library 
window,  which  was  alight  with  a  rosy  glow.  There  he 
Stood  for  a  moment  and  looked  into  the  room.  His  fa¬ 
ther,  the  Bishop,  was  seated  in  the  oak  chair  that  was 
clamped  with  iron  clamps.  Older  he  seemed  to  be,  and 
with  the  lines  a  thought  deeper  on  his  massive  brow.  On 


3S® 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


a  stool  at  hiG  feet,  with  one  elbow  resting  on  the  apron  hi 
front  of  him,  a  little  maiden  sat,  and  she  was  singing.  A 
fire  burned  red  on  the  hearth  before  them.  Presently  the 
Bishop  rose  from  his  chair,  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
walking  feebly,  and  with  drooping  head. 

Then  Daniel  Mylrea  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the 
house  and  knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  servant 
whose  face  was  strange  to  him.  Everything  that  he  saw 
was  strange,  and  yet  everything  was  familiar.  The  hall 
was  the  same  but  smaller,  and  when  it  echoed  to  his  foot 
a  thrill  passed  through  him. 

He  asked  for  the  Bishop,  and  was  led  like  a  stranger 
through  his  father’s  house  to  the  door  of  the  library.  The 
little  maiden  was  now  alone  in  the  room.  She  rose  from 
her  stool  as  he  entered,  and,  without  the  least  reserve, 
stepped  up  to  him  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  her 
tender  little  palm  in  his  great  fingers,  and  held  it  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  while  he  looked  into  her  face.  It  was  a  beautiful 
child-face,  soft  and  fair  and  oval,  with  a  faint  tinge  of  olive 
in  the  pale  cheeks,  and  with  yellow  hair — almost  white  in 
the  glow  of  the  red  fire — falling  in  thin  tresses  over  a  full, 
smooth  forehead. 

He  sat  and  drew  her  closer  to  him,  still  looking  steadily 
into  her  face.  Then,  in  a  tremulous  voice  he  asked  her 
what  her  name  was,  and  the  little  maiden,  who  had  shown 
no  fear  at  all,  nor  any  bashfulness,  answered  that  her  name 
was  Aileen. 

“  But  they  call  me  Ailee,”  she  added,  promptly  ;  “  every¬ 
body  calls  me  Ailee.” 

“  Everybody  ?  Who  ?  ” 

“Oh,  everybody,”  she  answered,  with  a  true  child’s 
phasis. 

“Your  mother ?” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“  Your — your — perhaps — your - ” 

She  shook  her  head  more  vigorously. 

“  I  know  what  you’re  going  to  say,  but  I’ve  got  none," 
she  said. 

“Got  none  ?”  he  repeated. 

The  little  maiden’s  face  took  suddenly  a  wondrous  so¬ 
lemnity,  and  she  said,  “My  father  died  a  long,  long,  long 
time  ago — when  I  was  only  a  little  baby.” 

His  lips  quivered,  and  his  eyes  fell  from  her  face. 

“  Such  a  long,  long  while  ago — you  wouldn’t  think.  And 
auntie  says  I  can’t  even  remember  him.” 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


35* 


"  Auntie  ?” 

“  But  shall  I  tell  you  what  Kerry  said  it  was  that  made 
him  die  ? — shall  I  ? — only  I  must  whisper — and  you  won’t 
tell  auntie,  will  you  ? — because  auntie  doesn’t  know — shall 
I  tell  you  ?  ” 

His  quivering  lips  whitened,  and  with  trembling  hands 
he  drew  aside  the  little  maiden’s  head  that  her  innocent 
eyes  might  not  gaze  into  his  face. 

“  How  old  are  you,  Ailee  ven  ?  ”  he  asked,  in  a  brave 

voice. 

“Oh,  I’m  seven — and  auntie,  she’s  seven  too  ;  auntie  and 
I  are  twins.” 

“And  you  can  sing,  can  you  not?  Will  you  sing  for 
me  ?” 

“What  shall  I  sing?” 

“Anything,  sweetheart — what  you  sang  a  little  while 
since.” 

“  For  grandpa?” 

“  Grandpa  ?” 

“  Kerry  says  no,  it's  uncle,  not  grandpa.  But  that’s 
wrong,”  with  a  look  of  outraged  honor;  “and  besides, 
how  should  Kerry  know  ?  It’s  not  her  grandpa,  is  it  ?  Do 
you  know  Kerry  ?  ”  Then  the  little  face  saddened  all  at 
once.  “Oh,  I  forgot— poor  Kerry.” 

“  Poor  Kerry  ?  ” 

“  I  used  to  go  and  see  her.  You  go  up  the  road,  and 
then  on  and  on  and  on  until  you  come  to  some  children, 
and  then  on  and  on  and  on  until  you  get  to  a  little  boy— 
and  then  you’re  there.” 

“  Won’t  you  sing,  sweetheart  ?  n 

“  I’ll  sing  grandpa’s  song.” 

“  Grandpa’s  ?  ” 

“Yes,  the  one  he  likes.” 

Then  the  little  maiden’s  dimpled  face  smoothened  out, 
and  her  simple  eyes  turned  gravely  upward  as  she  began 
to  sing : 


O,  Myle  Charaine,  where  got  you  your  gold  ? 

Lone,  lone,  you  have  left  me  here. 

O,  not  in  the  Curragh,  deep  under  the  mould, 
Lone,  lone,  and  void  of  cheer. 


It  was  the  favorite  song  of  his  own  boyish  days  ;  and 
while  the  little  maiden  sang  it  seemed  to  the  crime-stained 
naan  who  gazed  through  a  dim  haze  into  her  cherub  face. 


35* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


that  the  voice  of  her  dead  father  had  gone  into  her  voice. 
He  listened  while  he  could,  and  when  the  tears  welled  up 
to  his  eyes,  with  his  horny  hands  he  drew  her  fair  head 
down  to  his  heaving  breast,  and  sobbed  beneath  his  breatfh, 
“Ailee  ven,  Ailee  ven.” 

The  little  maiden  stopped  in  her  song  to  look  up  in  be¬ 
wilderment  at  the  bony,  wet  face  that  was  stooping  over 
her. 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  the 
Bishop  entered  noiselessly.  A  moment  he  stood  on  the 
threshold,  with  a  look  of  perplexity.  Then  he  made  a  few 
halting  steps,  and  said  : 

“My  eyes  are  not  what  they  were,  sir,  and  I  see  there  is 
no  light  but  the  firelight ;  but  I  presume  you  are  the  good 
Father  Dalby  ?  ” 

Daniel  Mylrea  had  risen  to  his  feet. 

“I  come  from  him,”  he  answered. 

“  Is  he  not  coming  himself  ?” 

“  He  cannot  come.  He  charged  me  with  a  message  to 
you.” 

“  You  are  very  welcome.  My  niece  will  be  home  pres¬ 
ently.  Be  seated,  sir.” 

Daniel  Mylrea  did  not  sit,  but  continued  to  stand  before 
his  father,  with  head  held  down.  After  a  moment  he 
spoke  again. 

“Father  Dalby,”  he  said,  “is  dead.” 

The  Bishop  sunk  to  his  chair.  “  When — when—0 

“  He  died  the  better  part  of  a  month  ago.” 

The  Bishop  rose  to  his  feet. 

“  He  was  in  this  island  but  yesterday.” 

“  He  bade  me  tell  you  that  he  had  fulfilled  his  pledge  IB 
you  and  come  to  the  island,  but  died  by  the  visitation  <$& 
God  the  same  night  whereon  he  landed  here.” 

The  Bishop  put  one  hand  to  his  forehead. 

“Sir,”  he  said,  “my  hearing  is  also  failing  rue,  for,  as 
you  see,  I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  besides,  I  have  had 
trouble  in  my  time.  Perhaps,  sir,  I  did  not  hear  you 
aright  ?  ” 

Then  Daniel  Mylrea  told  in  few  words  the  story  of  the 
priest’s  accident  and  death,  and  how  the  man  at  whose 
house  he  died  had  made  bold  to  take  the  good  priest’s 
mission  upon  himself. 

The  Bishop  listened  with  visible  pain,  and  for  a  whil€ 
said  nothing.  Then,  speaking  in  a  faltering  voice,  with 
breath  that  came  quickly,  he  asked  who  the  other  man  h$d 


THE  DEEMSTER  JJJ 

been.  “  For  the  good  man  has  been  a  blessing  to  us,”  he 
added,  nervously. 

To  this  question  there  was  no  r&ply,  and  he  asked  again  : 

“Who?” 

“Myself.” 

The  Bishop  lifted  with  trembling  fingers  his  horn- 
bridged  spectacles  to  his  eyes. 

“  Your  voice  is  strangely  familiar,”  he  said.  "  What  is 
your  name  ?  ” 

Again  there  was  no  answer. 

“  Give  me  your  name,  sir — that  I  may  pray  of  God  to 
bless  you.” 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

“  Let  me  remember  it  in  my  prayers.” 

Then  in  a  breaking  voice  Daniel  Mylrea  replied  : 

“In  your  prayers  my  poor  name  has  never  been  for¬ 
gotten.” 

At  that  the  Bishop  tottered  a  pace  backward. 

“  Light,”  he  said,  faintly.  “  More  light.” 

He  touched  a  bell  on  the  table,  and  sunk  quietly  into 
his  chair.  Daniel  Mylrea  fell  to  his  knees  at  the  Bishop's 
feet. 

“  Father,”  he  said  in  a  fervent  whisper,  and  put  his  lips 
to  the  Bishop’s  hand. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  a  servant  entered  with  can¬ 
dles.  At  the  same  moment  Daniel  Mylrea  stepped  quickly 
out  of  the  room. 

Then  the  little  maiden  leaped  from  the  floor  to  the 
Bishop’s  side. 

“  Grandpa,  grandpa !  Oh,  what  has  happened  to  grand¬ 
pa  ?  ”  she  cried. 

The  Bishop’s  head  had  dropped  into  his  breast  and  he 
had  fainted.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  in  consciousness 
Mona  was  bathing  his  forehead  and  damping  his  lips. 

“  My  child,”  he  said,  nervously,  “one  has  come  back  to 
us  from  the  dead.” 

And  Mona  answered  him  with  the  thought  that  was* 
now  uppermost  in  her  mind  : 

“  Dear  uncle,”  she  said,  u  my  poor  father  died  half  an 
hour  ago.” 


3S4 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

€COUr  father,  which  art  in  heaven.* 

Not  many  days  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  fore- 
going  chapter  the  people  of  Man  awoke  to  the  joyful 
certainty  that  the  sweating  sickness  had  disappeared. 
The  solid  wave  of  heat  had  gone  ;  the  ground  had  become 
dry  and  the  soil  light ;  and  no  fetid  vapors  floated  over 
the  Curraghs  at  midday.  Also  the  air  had  grown  keener, 
the  nights  had  sharpened,  and  in  the  morning  the  fronds 
of  hoar-frost  hung  on  the  withering  leaves  of  the  tram- 
mon. 

Then  the  poor  folk  began  to  arrange  their  thoughts 
concerning  the  strange  things  that  had  happened  ;  to 
count  up  their  losses  by  death  ;  to  talk  of  children  that 
were  fatherless,  and  of  old  men  left  alone  in  the  world, 
like  naked  trunks,  without  bough  or  branch,  flung  on  the 
bare  earth  by  yesterday’s  storm. 

And  in  that  first  roll-call  after  the  battle  of  life  and 
death  the  people  suddenly  became  aware  that,  with  the 
sweating  sickness,  the  man  who  had  brought  the  cure  for 
it  had  also  disappeared.  He  was  not  on  the  Curraghs, 
he  was  no  longer  in  Michael,  and  further  east  he  had  not 
travelled.  None  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him.  When 
seen  last  he  was  walking  south  through  German  toward 
Patrick.  He  was  then  alone,  save  for  the  half-daft  lad, 
Davy  Fayle,  who  slouched  at  his  heels  like  a  dog.  As  he 
passed  up  Creg  Willey’s  Hill  the  people  of  St.  John’s  fol¬ 
lowed  him  in  ones  and  twos  and  threes  to  offer  him  their 
simple  thanks.  But  he  pushed  along  as  one  who  hardly 
heard  them.  When  he  came  by  the  Tynwald  he  paused 
and  turned  partly  toward  Greeba,  as  though  half  minded 
to  alter  his  course.  But,  hesitating  no  longer,  he  followed 
the  straight  path  toward  the  village  at  the  foot  of  Slieau 
Whallin.  As  he  crossed  the  green  the  people  of  St. 
John’s,  who  followed  him  up  the  hill  road,  had  grown  to 
a  great  number,  being  joined  there  by  the  people  of  Tyn¬ 
wald.  And  when  he  passed  under  the  ancient  mount, 
walking  with  long,  rapid  steps,  his  chin  on  his  breast  and 
his  eyes  kept  steadfastly  down,  the  gray-headed  men  un¬ 
covered  their  heads,  the  young  women  thrust  their  young 
children  under  his  hands  for  his  blessing,  and  all  by  one 


THE  ’'DEEMSTER. 


355 


impulse  shouted  in  one  voice,  “  God  bless  the  priest ! " 
“  Heaven  save  the  priest !  ” 

There  were  spectators  of  that  scene  who  were  wont  to 
say,  when  this  sequel  had  freshened  their  memories,  that 
amid  the  wild  tumult  of  the  gratitude  of  the  island’s  poor 
people  he  who  was  the  subject  of  it  made  one  quick 
glance  of  pain  upward  to  the  mount,  now  standing  empty 
above  the  green,  and  then,  parting  the  crowds  that  en¬ 
circled  him,  pushed  through  them  without  word  or  glance 
or  sign.  Seeing  at  last  that  he  shrunk  from  their  thanks, 
the  people  followed  him  no  farther,  but  remained  on  the 
green,  watching  him  as  he  passed  on  toward  Slieau  Whal- 
lin,  and  then  up  by  the  mountain  track.  When  he  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  path,  where  it  begins  its  descent  to 
the  valley  beyond,  lie  paused  again  and  turned  about, 
glancing  back.  The  people  below  saw  his  full  figure 
clearly  outlined  against  the  sky,  and  once  more  they  sent 
up  their  shout  by  one  great  impulse  in  one  great  voice 
that  drowned  the  distant  rumble  of  the  sea  :  “God  bless 
the  priest  !  ”  “  Heaven  save  the  priest !  ”  And  he  heard 

it,  for  instantly  he  faced  about  and  disappeared. 

When  he  was  gone  it  seemed  as  if  a  spell  had  broken. 
The  people  looked  into  one  another’s  faces  in  bewilder¬ 
ment,  as  if  vaguely  conscious  that  somewhere  and  some 
time,  under  conditions  the  same  yet  different,  all  that  they 
had  then  seen  their  eyes  had  seen  before.  And  bit  by  bit 
the  memory  came  back  to  them,  linked  with  a  name  that 
might  not  be  spoken.  Then  many  things  that  had  seemed 
strange  became  plain. 

In  a  few  days  the  whisper  passed  over  Man,  from  north 
to  south,  from  east  to  west,  from  the  sod  cabins  on  the 
Curragh  to  the  Castle  at  Castletown,  that  he  who  had 
cured  the  people  of  the  sickness,  he  who  had  been  mis¬ 
taken  for  the  priest  out  of  Ireland,  was  none  other  than 
the  unblessed  man  long  thought  to  be  dead  ;  and  that  he 
had  lived  to  be  the  savior  of  his  people. 

The  great  news  was  brought  to  Bishop’s  Court,  and  it 
was  found  to  be  there  already.  Rumor  said  that  from 
Castletown  an  inquiry  had  come  asking  if  the  news  were 
true,  but  none  could  tell  what  answer  Bishop’s  Court  had 
made.  The  Bishop  had  shut  himself  up  from  all  visits 
even  those  of  his  clergy.  With  Mona  and  the  child, 
Ewan’s  little  daughter,  he  had  passed  the  days  fiinoo 
Thorkell’s  death,  and  not  until  the  day  of  Thorkell’s  fo- 
neral  did  he  break  in  upon  his  solitude.  Then  he  wexH 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


356 

down  to  the  little  churchyard  that  stands  over  by  the 
sea. 

They  buried  the  ex-Deemster  near  to  his  son  Ewan,  and 
with  scarcely  a  foot's  space  between  them.  Except  Jarvis 
Kerruish,  the  Bishop  was  Thorkell’s  sole  mourner,  and 
hardly  had  the  service  ended,  or  the  second  shovel  of 
earth  fallen  from  old  Will-as-Thorn’s  spade,  when  Jarvis 
whipped  about  and  walked  away.  Then  the  Bishop  stood 
alone  by  his  brother’s  unhonored  grave,  trying  to  forget 
his  malice  and  uncharity,  and  his  senseless  superstitions 
that  had  led  to  many  disasters,  thinking  only  with  the 
pity  that  is  nigh  to  love  of  the  great  ruin  whereunto  his 
poor  beliefs  had  tottered  down.  And  when  the  Bishop 
had  returned  home  the  roll-call  of  near  kindred  showed 
him  pitiful  gaps.  “The  island  grows  very  lonesome, 
Mona,”  he  said. 

That  night  Davy  Fayle  came  to  Bishop’s  Court  with  a 
book  in  his  hand.  He  told  Mona  how  he  had  found  the 
Ben-my-Chree  a  complete  wreck  on  the  shingle  of  the 
Dhoon  Creek  in  the  Calf  Sound,  and  the  book  in  its  locker. 
Not  a  syllable  could  Davy  read,  but  he  knew  that  the  book 
was  the  fishing-log  of  the  lugger,  and  that  since  he  saw  it 
last  it  had  been  filled  with  writings. 

Mona  took  the  book  into  the  library,  and  with  the  Bish¬ 
op  she  examined  it.  It  was  a  small  quarto,  bound  in 
sheepskin,  with  corners  and  back  of  untanned  leather. 
Longways  on  the  back  the  words  “  Ben-my-Chree  Fishing: 
Log  ”  were  lettered,  as  with  a  soft  quill  in  a  bold  hand. 
On  the  front  page  there  was  this  inscription : 


Ben-my-Chree. 

Owner,  Daniel  Mylrea,  Bishop’s  Courts 
Isle  of  Man. 

Master,  Illiam  Quilleash. 


Over  page  was  the  word  “  Accounts,”  and  then  followed 
the  various  items  of  the  earnings  and  expenditure  of  the 
boat.  ’The  handwriting  was  strong  and  free,  but  the  book¬ 
keeping  was  not  lucid. 

Eight  pages  of  faintly-tinted  paper,  much  frayed,  and 
with  lines  ruled  by  hand  one  way  of  the  sheet  only,  were 
filled  with  the  accounts  of  the  herring  season  of  1705.  At 
the  bottom  there  was  an  attempt  at  picking  out  the  items 
of  profit  and  loss,  and  at  reckoning  the  shares  of  owner, 
master,  and  man.  The  balance  stood  but  too  sadly  on  the 


THE  DEEMSTER.  357 

wrong  side.  There  was  a  deficit  of  forty  pounds  four  shit- 
lings  and  sixpence. 

The  Bishop  glanced  at  the  entries,  and  passed  them  over 
with  a  sigh.  But  turning  the  leaves,  he  came  upon  other 
matter  of  more  pathetic  interest.  This  was  a  long  per¬ 
sonal  narrative  from  the  owner’s  pen,  covering  some  two 
hundred  of  the  pages.  The  Bishop  looked  it  through, 
hurriedly,  nervously,  and  with  eager  eyes.  Then  he  gave 
up  the  book  to  Mona. 

“  Read  it  aloud,  child,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  unlike  hi* 
own,  and  with  a  brave  show  of  composure  he  settled  him¬ 
self  to  listen. 

For  two  hours  thereafter  Mona  read  from  the  narrative 
that  was  written  in  the  book.  What  that  narrative  was 
does  not  need  to  be  said. 

Often  the  voice  of  the  reader  failed  her,  sometimes  it 
could  not  support  itself.  And  in  the  lapses  of  her  voice 
the  silence  was  broken  by  her  low  sobs. 

The  Bishop  listened  long  with  a  great  outer  calmness, 
for  the  affections  of  the  father  were  struggling  with  a  sense 
of  the  duty  of  the  servant  of  God.  At  some  points  of  the 
narrative  these  seemed  so  to  conflict  as  to  tear  his  old  heart 
wofully.  But  he  bore  up  very  bravely,  and  tried  to  think 
that  in  what  he  had  done  seven  years  before  he  had  done 
well.  At  an  early  stage  of  Mona’s  reading  he  stopped  her 
to  say : 

“  Men  have  been  cast  on  desert  islands  beforetime,  and 
too  often  they  have  been  adrift  on  unknown  seas.” 

Again  he  stopped  her  to  add,  with  a  slow  shake  of  the 
head  : 

“  Men  have  been  outlawed,  and  dragged  out  weary  years 
in  exile — men  have  been  oftentimes  under  the  ban  and 
chain  of  the  law.” 

And  once  again  he  interrupted  and  said,  in  a  trembling 
undertone,  “  It  is  true — it  has  been  what  I  looked  for— it 
has  been  a  death  in  life.” 

But  as  Mona  went  on  to  read  of  how  the  outcast  man, 
kept  back  from  speech  with  every  living  soul,  struggled  to 
preserve  the  spiritual  part  of  him,  the  Bishop  interrupted 
once  more,  and  said,  in  a  faltering  voice  : 

“This  existence  has  been  quite  alone  in  its  desola* 
tion.” 

As  Mona  went  on  again  to  read  of  how  the  unblessed 
creature  said  his  prayer  in  his  solitude,  not  hoping  that 
God  would  hear,  but  thinking  himself  a  man  outside  Gods 


35* 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


grace,  though  God’s  hand  was  upon  him— thinking  him¬ 
self  a  man  doomed  to  everlasting  death,  though  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  Heaven  had  already  fallen  over  him  like  morning 
dew — then  all  that  remained  of  spiritual  pride  in  the  heart 
of  the  Bishop  was  borne  down  by  the  love  of  the  father, 
and  his  old  head  fell  into  his  breast,  and  the  hot  tears 
rained  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks. 

Later  the  same  night  Mona  sent  for  Davy  Fayle.  The 
lad  was  easily  found  ;  he  had  been  waiting  in  the  darkness 
outside  the  house,  struggling  hard  with  a  desire  to  go  in 
and  tell  Mistress  Mona  where  Daniel  Mylrea  was  to  be 
found. 

“  Davy,”  she  said,  “do  you  know  where  he  is?” 

“Sure,”  said  Davy. 

“  And  you  could  lead  me  to  him  ?  ” 

“  I  could.” 

“  Then  come  here  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  we 
will  go  together.” 

Next  day  when  Mona,  attired  for  her  journey,  went 
down  for  a  hasty  breakfast,  she  found  the  Bishop  fum¬ 
bling  a  letter  in  his  trembling  fingers. 

“  Read  this,  child,”  he  said  in  a  thick  voice,  and  he 
handed  the  letter  to  her. 

She  turned  it  over  nervously.  The  superscription  ran, 
“These  to  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Man,  at  his  Palace  of 
Bishop’s  Court,”  and  the  seal  on  the  other  face  was  that 
of  the  insular  Government. 

While  the  Bishop  made  pretence  of  wiping  with  his 
handkerchief  the  horn-bridged  spectacles  on  his  nose 
Mona  opened  and  read  the  letter. 

It  was  from  the  Governor  at  Castletown,  and  said  that 
the  Lord  of  Man  and  the  Isles,  in  recognition  of  the  great 
services  done  by  Daniel  Mylrea  to  the  people  of  the  island 
during  their  recent  affliction,  would  be  anxious  to  appoint 
him  Deemster  of  Man,  in  succession  to  his  late  uncle, 
Thorkell  Mylrea  (being  satisfied  that  he  was  otherwise 
qualified  for  the  post),  if  the  Steward  of  the  Ecclesiastical 
Courts  were  willing  to  remove  the  censure  of  the  Church 
under  which  he  now  labored.* 

When  she  had  finished  reading,  Mona  cast  one  glance  of 
nervous  supplication  upward  to  the  Bishop’s  face,  and  then 
with  a  quick  cry  of  joy,  which  was  partly  pain,  she  flung 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

The  old  Bishop  was  quite  broken  down. 

“  Man’s  judgments  on  man,”  he  said,  “  are  but  as  th& 


THE  DEEMSTER.  359 

anger  of  little  children — here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow,  and 
the  Father’s  face  is  over  all.” 


What  need  to  tell  of  one  of  the  incidents  of  Mona's  jour¬ 
ney,  or  of  the  brave  hopes  that  buoyed  her  up  on  the  long 
and  toilsome  way  ?  Many  a  time  during  these  seven  years 
past  she  had  remembered  that  it  was  she  who  had  persuaded 
Dan  to  offer  his  life  as  an  atonement  for  his  sin.  And 
often  the  thought  came  back  to  her  with  the  swiftness  of 
remorse  that  it  was  she  who,  in  her  blindness,  had  sent  him 
to  a  doom  that  was  worse  than  death.  But  Heaven’s  ways 
had  not  been  her  ways,  and  all  was  well.  The  atonement 
had  been  made,  and  the  sin  had  been  wiped  out  of  the 
book  of  life.  Dan,  her  love,  her  beloved,  had  worked  out 
his  redemption.  He  had  proved  himself  the  great  man 
she  had  always  known  he  must  be.  He  was  to  come  back 
loaded  with  honor  and  gratitude,  and  surrounded  by  multi¬ 
tudes  of  friends. 

More  than  once,  when  the  journey  was  heaviest,  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  touched  the  paper  that  nestled 
so  warmly  there.  Then  iji  her  mind’s  eye  she  saw  Dan  in 
the  seat  of  the  Deemster,  the  righteous  judge  of  his  own 
people.  Oh,  yes,  he  would  be  the  Deemsfcer,  but  he  would 
be  Dan  still,  her  Dan,  the  lively,  cheerful,  joyous,  perhaps 
even  frolicsome  Dan,  once  more.  He  would  sport  with 
her  like  Ailee  ;  he  would  play  with  her  as  he  used  to  play 
long  ago  with  another  little  girl  that  she  herself  could  re¬ 
member — tickling  her  under  her  armpits,  and  under  her 
chin,  and  in  twenty  different  cosey  nests  of  her  pretty  body, 
where  whole  broods  of  birdies  sent  up  a  chorus  of  squeal¬ 
ing  song-laughter. 

The  burden  of  Mona’s  long  years  of  weary  sorrow  had 
been  so  suddenly  lifted  away  that  she  could  not  restrain 
her  thoughts  from  childish  sportiveness.  But  sometimes 
she  remembered  Ewan,  and  then  her  heart  saddened,  and 
sometimes  she  thought  of  herself,  and  then  it  flushed  full 
of  quick,  hot  blood.  And,  oh,  how  delicious  was  the  se¬ 
cret  thing  that  sometimes  stole  up  between  her  visions  of 
Dan  and  the  high  destiny  that  was  before  him.  It  was  a 
vision  of  herself,  transfigured  by  his  noble  love,  resting 
upon  and  looking  up  to  him,  and  thus  passing  on  and  on 
and  on  to  the  end. 

Once  she  remembered,  with  a  chill  passing  through  her, 
Abat  in  the  writing  which  she  had  read  Dan  had  said  Sic 


THE  DEEMSTER. 


was  ill  ?  But  what  of  that  ?  She  was  going  to  him,  and 
would  nurse  him  back  to  health. 

And  Davy  Faylp,  walking  at  her  side,  was  full  of  his 
own  big  notions,  too.  Mastha  Dan  would  be  Dempster, 
true  ;  but  he’d  have  a  boat  for  his  pleasure,  sarten  sure. 
Davjf  Fayle  would  sail  man  in  her,  perhaps  mate,  and 
maybe  skipper  some  day — who  knows  ?  And  then — lying 
aft  and  drifting  at  the  herrings,  and  smookin’,  and  the 
stars  out,  and  the  moon  makin’  a  peep — aw,  well,  well, 
well ! 

They  reached  the  end  of  their  journey  at  last.  It  waa 
in  a  small  gorse-covered  house  far  over  the  wild  moor,  on 
the  edge  of  the  Chasms,  looking  straight  out  on  the  hun¬ 
gry  sea.  In  its  one  bare  room  (which  was  without  fire, 
and  was  cheerless  with  little  light)  there  was  a  table,  a  set¬ 
tle,  a  chair,  a  stool,  and  a  sort  of  truckle-bed.  Dan  was 
there,  the  same,  yet,  oh,  how  different !  He  lay  on  the 
bed  unconscious,  near  to  death  of  the  sickp^ss — the  last 
that  the  scourge  was  to  slay. 


Of  this  story  of  great  love  and  g^eat  suffer  !ng  what  is 
left  to  tell  ? 

There  are  moments  when  life  seems  like  the  &lind  swirl 
of  a  bat  in  the  dusk — blundering,  irresponsible,  not  to  be 
counted  with,  the  swift  creature  of  evil  chance.  We  see 
a  little  child’s  white  face  at  a  hospital  window,  &  strong 
man  toiling  hopelessly  against  wrong,  the  innocent  suffer¬ 
ing  with  the  guilty,  good  instincts  thwarted  and  base  pur¬ 
poses  promoted,  and  we  ask  ourselves,  with  a  thrill  of  the 
heart,  What,  after  all,  is  God  doing  in  this  his  world  ? 
And  from  such  blind  laboring  of  chance  the  tired  and 
beaten  generations  of  men  seem  to  find  it  reward  enough 
to  drop  one  after  one  to  the  hushed  realms  of  rest. 

Shall  we  marvel  very  much  if  such  a  moment  car^e  to 
this  pure  and  noble  woman  as  she  stood  in  the  death- 
chamber  of  her  beloved,  with  whom,  after  years  of  longing, 
she  was  at  last  brought  face  to  face  ? 

But  again,  there  are  other  moments,  higher  and  better, 
when  there  is  such  a  thing  in  this  so  bewildering  world  as 
the  victory  of  vanquishment,  when  the  true  man  crushed 
by  evil  chance  is  yet  the  true  man  undestroyed  by  it  and 
destroying  it,  when  Job  on  his  dunghill  is  more  to  be  ea* 
vied  than  Pharaoh  on  his  throne,  and  death  is  as  good 
life. 


■'■wrair  or  iHiRof 

THE  DEEMSTER.  361 


And  such  a  higher  moment  came  to  Mona  in  that  death- 
chamber.  She  sat  many  hours  by  Dan’s  side,  waiting  for 
the  breaking  of  his  delirium  and  the  brief  space  of  con¬ 
sciousness  and  of  peace  which  would  be  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  It  came  at  long,  long  length,  and,  ah,  how  soon 
it  came  ! 

The  night  had  come  and  gone  while  she  sat  and  watched. 
When  the  sunrise  shot  red  through  the  skin-covered  win¬ 
dow  it  fell  on  Dan  and  awakened  him.  Opening  his  eyes, 
he  saw  Mona,  and  his  soul  smiled  over  his  wasted  face. 
He  could  not  speak,  nor  could  he  lift  his  worn  hands.  She 
knew  that  the  time  was  near,  and  holding  back  her  grief, 
like  wild  creatures  held  by  the  leash,  she  dropped  to  her 
knees,  and  clasped  her  hands  together  to  pray.  And 
while  she  prayed  the  dying  man  repeated  some  of  the  words 
after  her. 

“Our  Father,”— 

“  Our — Father,” — 

“Which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name/' — 

“  Hallowed — be — thy — name,” — 

“Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done  in  earth,  as  it  is 
in  heaven  ;  give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  ;  and  forgive 
us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against 
us  ;  and  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from 
evil,” — 

“  But  deliver  us  from  evil|”— 

“  Amen.” 

."Am*" 


THE  END* 


/ 1',  y 


Lands: 

WHERE  THEY  ARE 
AND 

roTHEGRE^ouTHWEjifl  H0W  TO  GET  THEM. 


TUB 

COTTON 

BBLT 

ROUTB 


traverses  the  finest  Farming*,  Grazing  and  Timber  Lands 
and  reaches  the  most  prosperous  Towns  and  Cities  in  the 

Great  Southwest. 


HE  ONLY  LINE  running 
through  coaches,  free  reclin¬ 
ing  chair  cars,  and  Pullman 
Sleepers  between  Memphis  and 
the  principal  points  in  Arkan¬ 
sas  and  Texas. 


NO  CHANGE  OF  CARS 

between  Memphis  and  Pine 
Bluff,  Texarkana,  Tyler,  Cor¬ 
sicana,  Waco,  Greenville,  Sher¬ 
man  and  Ft.  Worth,  or  inter- 
me  hate  points. 


NO  FERRY  TRANSFERS 

to  and  from  all  points  in  the 
Southeast,  via  Memphis  and 
the  Cotton  Belt  Route. 


FARMING  LAN DS— Yield¬ 
ing  abundantly  all  the  cereals, 
corn  and  cotton, and  especially 
adapted  to  the  cultivation  ol 
small  fruits  and  early  veget¬ 
ables. 

GRAZING  LAN DS.- Afford- 

ding  excellent  pasturage  dur¬ 
ing  almost  the  entire  year,  and 
comparatively  close  to  the 
great  markets. 

TIMBER  LANDS -Covered 
with  almost  inexhaustible  for¬ 
ests  of  yellow  pine,  cypress, 
and  the  hard  woods  common 
to  Arkansas  and  Eastern  Texas. 

Can  be  procured  on  reason¬ 
able  and  advantageous 
terms. 


IF  YOU  WANT 

TO  KNOW 


W.  A.  McQUQWN ,  T.  P.  A. 

LOUISVILLE,  KY. 

H.  H.  SUTTON,  T.  P.  A. 

CHATTANOOGA,  TENN. 

C.  P,  RECTOR,  COM.  AGT. 
MEMPHIS,  TENN. 


more  about  the  COTTON  BELT  ROUTE 
and  the  lands  it  reaches,  write  to  any  of 
the  undersigned  for  a  copy  of  “Homes 
in  the  Southwest,"  ‘‘Truth  About 
Arkansas,"  “Texas  Lands"  or 
“Through  Texas.”  Mailed  free. 

FRED  H.  JONES,  D.  P.  A. 

ATLANTA,  GA. 

W.  G.  ADAMS,  T.  P.  A. 

NASHVILLE,  TENN. 

M.  ADAMI,  T.  P.  A. 

CAIRO,  ILL. 


OR  E.  W.  LA  BEAUME,  Gen'l  Pass.  &  Tk^,  Agt.  St.  Louis,  Mo, 


■  erasin'  nr  u  i  iroi 

It  l  /  n 


TO  ALL  THE 

Principal  Ports 

AND 

Summer  Resorts 

ON 

LAKE  MICHIGAN. 

THE  BEST  APPOINTED 
MOST  THOROUGHLY  EQUIPPED 
AND  LUXURIOUSLY  FURNISHED 
STEAMSHIPS 
ON  LAKE  MICHIGAN. 

LOW  EXCURSION  RATES 

For  full  information  a,s  to  routes, 
rates  and  time,  address 

H,  A.  BONN,  Gen’l  Pass.  Agent, 

CHICAGO. 


MASONIC  TEMPLE  ROOF  GARDEN 

GEO:  A*  FAIR*  Manager* 

High-Class  Vaudeville, 

EVERY  EVENING  AT  8:30. 

Matinees  Saturday  and  Sunday  at  2:30. 

A  Grand 
View 
of  aU 
Chicago 
and 

Vicinity 

CONCERT 
by  the 
RUSSIAN 
ORCHESTRA 
Every 
Afternoon* 

300  feet 
above  t h  e 
street  level. 


ADMSSSION,  SO  CTS. 

THE  ONLY  ROOF  GARDEN  I  CHICAGO. 

Ohange  of  Bill  Weekly. 

PLAYING  ONLY  RECOGNIZED  ATTRACTIONS. 


1 


SUPERIOR  DENTAL  PARLORS 


The  Superior's  4  Eminent  Dentists  m  Painless 
and  Kigh'Gfass  Dentistry. 

L.  A.  MELZE,  M.  D.,  D.  D.  S.,  &  SONS. 

CROWN  km  BRIDGE  WORK  OUR  SPECIALTY. 

Dr.  M e?ze,  Sr,,  or  one  of  his  sons*  personally  attends 
to  each  and  every  patient;  no  students.  By  virtue  of  our 
superior  ability  we  produce  the  greatest  possible  results 
in  all  cur  operations  without  pain.  Open  until  9 
F.  IVI.i  Smftays.  4.  P.  M,  Phone  1596  Main. 
Lady  Attendants. 

no 

r^HWlV.s  PSINI 


Painless  Extraction*  «  *»  «  50  cts. 

Full  Set  of  Teeth,  «  -  $5,00 

Best  Set,  ~  S.OO 

Gold  Filling',  -  $1,00  up 

Cement  or  Silver,  »  ~  SO  cts,  up 

22-K.  Gold  Crowns,  ~  -  -  $5.00 

No  charges  for  Painless  extraction  when  teeth 
are  ordered.  Gome  in  the  morning,  havs  your  teeth  ex¬ 
tracted,  and  we  will  send  you  home  in  the  evening  with  a 
perfect  fitting  and  elegant  eet  of  teeth. 

SUPERIOR  DENTAL  PARLORS, 

INTER  OCEAN  BUILDSNS. 

SSCONd  PLOOfl, 

rooms,  2oe-iG-M.  Cor.  Madison  and  Dearborn  Sis. 


A  Great  Railway. 


The  Chicago,  Milwaukee  &  St.  Paul  Railway  Co. 
owns  and  operates  6,169  miles  of  road. 

It  operates  its  own  Sleeping  Cars  and  Dining  Care. 

It  traverses  the  best  portion  of  the  States  of  Illinois, 
Wisconsin,  Northern  Michigan,  Iowa,  Missouri,  Minne¬ 
sota,  South  and  North  Dakota. 

Its  Sleeping  and  Dining  Car  service  is  first-class 
in  every  respect. 

It  runs  vestibuled,  steam- heated  and  electric-lighted 
trains. 

It  has  the  absolute  block  system. 

It  uses  all  modern  appliances  for  the  comfort  and 
safety  of  its  patrons. 

Its  train  employes  are  civil  and  obliging. 

It  tries  to  give  each  passenger  u  value  received 
for  his  money,  and 

Its  General  Passenger  Agent  asks  every  man, 
woman  and  child  to  buy  tickets  over  the  Chicago, 
Milwaukee  &  St.  Paul  Railway — for  it  is  A  Great 
Railway. 

GEO.  H.  HEAFFORD, 

Gen.  Pass,  and  Ticket  Agent, 

Chicago,  Ilf. 


THE  IDEAL  LIBRARY 


The  following  Books  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  Post-paid  upon  Receipt  of 
25  cents  each.  Donohue,  Henneberry  &  Co.,  41 5  DearbornSt. ,  Chicago. 


BY  MARIE  CORELLL 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Thelma 

A  Romance  of  Two  Worlds 

Ardath 

Yendetta 

Wormwood 

BY  GEORGE  EBERS. 

Uarda 

An  Egyptian  Princess 
-  BY  EDNALYALL. 

Donovan 
We  Two 

In  The  Golden  Days 
Knight  Errant 
Won  By  Waiting 
A  Hardy  Norseman 

BY  THE  DUCHESR 
A  Life’s  Remorse 
Lady  Branksmere 
Marvel 

Mildred  Trevanion 
The  Hon.  Mrs.  Yereker 
Lady  Walworth’s  Diamonds 
Undercurrents 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD. 
Allen  Quartermain 
Allen’s  Wife. 

King  Solomon’s  Mines 
She 

Mr.  Meeson's  Will 
Miawa’s  Revenge 
Cleopatra 

Hunter  Quatermain’s  Story 
BY  HAWLEY  SMART. 

A  False  Start 
A  Glorious  Galop 
Breezie  Langton 
Saddle  and  Sabre 

BY  J.  FENNIMORE  COOPER. 
The  Deerslaver 
The  Last  of  the  Mohicans 
The  Pathfinder 
The  Pioneers 
The  Prairie 

>  BY  LORD  LYTTON. 

Kenelm  Chillinglej 

The  Last  Days  o£  WmmeR 


Astoria 

Bracebridge  Hall 
Captain  Bonneville 
Conquest  of  Granada 
Crayon  Papers 
Conquest  of  Spain 
The  Sketch  Book 
Salmagundi 
Tales  of  a  Traveler 
The  Alhambra 

BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Adam  Bede 
Silas  Marner 
Romola 
Felix  Holt 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 

BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Oliver  Twist 

BY  WILKIE  COLLINS, 

The  Legacy  of  Cain 
Heart  and  Science 
The  Evil  Genius 
A  New  Magdalen 

BY  ROSA  NOUCH’TE  CAREY. 
Mary  St.  John 
Lover  or  Friend 
Wooed  and  Married 
Wee  Wifie 

BY  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 

The  Mate  of  the  Vancouver 
A  Marriage  at  Sea 
The  Frozen  Pirate 
My  Danish  Sweetheart 
BY  JULES  VERNE. 

Michael  Strogoff 
The  Mysterious  Island 
20,000  Leagues  Under  the  Sea 
A  Tour  of  the  World  in  Eighty  Days 
E.  MARLIT. 

The  Old  Mam’selles  Secret 
E.  WERNER. 

Flames 

BY  JAMES  MOONEY. 
Shadowed  to  Europe  ^ 

Two  Women  in  Blaok 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


AYER 


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CURES  COLDS  COUGHS 

Throat i.nj  Lung  Diseases* 


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